Thursday, July 31, 2014

Life, Mr. Potato

You come, in your skin,
starchy, life.
Rooted in dirt,
delivered by hand
pulled from a deep beneath
And then
you mash
and smash
our soft, tepid bodies
You fry our brains
with oil of reason
And grate us,
our prim senses
with onslaught and overload
Poor potato
like edible porcelain
in a swank jacket
Can't they be gentle?
You're fragile,
but life batters
and boils
you whole.

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