I heard you talking at dinner
Saying the gravy was sublime,
About the perfect cuts of meat,
Of steak tempered with twists of lime
The gleaming polished silverware,
The tablecloth’s embroidered rose,
And how the meal, so ethereal
Was marred by mortal potatoes.
Don’t think I missed the subtle hint
The inflection and sideward glance
I know you prefer lean and mean,
You tell me that at every chance
Airy tossed salads, leeks and greens,
Marinara and pistachios,
What place then on your table for
Us poor humble mud potatoes?
Too round, too fat, oh just too squat,
The salmon’s throwing a near fit,
The rest of the dishes just might
Be inching away bit by bit.
You point at me with regal forks
I don’t mind anymore (I could)
I may be just a potato, but
You bet your bass, I know I’m good.
Yes well, potatoes. There’s nothing wrong with looking like a muddy potato amidst a basket of celery. You’re still strong. Robust, heartening. Delicious even. Being simple, understated, quietly significant. While none of those are exactly attributes a normal girl would aspire to, I think I can live with being more strong than I am weak. I don’t mind being a potato.
Are you a potato, too?