A brief ode to a bag of potatoes

    Photo by the author / North by Northwestern

    I’m sorry I had neglected you.
    Since we last were in contact
    you’ve grown considerably.
    I know this is you reaching out.

    I should have known when I gave
    you your place — among cans and
    boxes of dried pasta — that your shelf
    life would be outlived by my forgetting.

    Spindly translucent fingers point
    every which way, pressing
    against clear plastic in a dark
    damp corner.

    Purple growths dot you,
    almost like flowers sprouting
    up through the early spring
    mix of mud and grass.

    But you know no spring. You stay,
    shrouded in shadow surrounded
    by dust and loose strands of
    angel hair gone rogue.

    A gaggle of your carbon copies,
    squashed and hidden from sight,
    gone from my mind for weeks until
    your dim lumps catch my eye.

    I apologize to your starchy, bulbous
    form as I relocate you and your
    comrades into the refrigerator.


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