by Gideon Burton
Potato -- either russet, red or sweet --
you slumber under mud until complete.
While tubers zig the surface, indiscreet,
you swell to ripened fullness under feet.
You are the king of carbos, prince of starch,
the staple of our lust for chips and fries;
for you to Idaho I'd gladly march,
despite your tendency for sprouting eyes.
In families of five or twenty pounds,
I purchase you in bags of plastic brown,
then cook and smash you into steaming mounds
on which I ladle gravy without bounds.
Les pommes de terre you are my daily buds;
I worship at the shrine of fluffy spuds.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - LavenderCreek