Here's another poem that's been languishing in my completed works file for far too long. It's one of my favorites and I hope you'll enjoy it, too.
Of the Potato
No one ever writes
in praise of the potato
It lacks the firm jewel-skinned
sweet fleshed allure of the apple -
wholesome, like a sleeping virgin
all ripe and waxed and shiny
Nor does the potato
have the slick green sex appeal
of the avocado,
like a pneumatic Martian pin-up
with a California accent
Even among vegetables
the potato's rank is humble
How can it compete
with the richly colored and musically named
broccoli and zucchini
or the fleshy, glossy aubergine
or even lettuce, when freshly washed
glittering smugly in the background
like a society wife
(never mind the wilted edges)
The potato looks rather
like a pleasantly plump woman -
lumpy, with worn brown hands
and a dirt smudged apron
No one ever seduced
a well dressed man
by feeding him potatoes
They are ushered away
from polite tables
and pointed in the direction
of immigrants and the poor
And when do they have time to write
in praise of the potato
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