This humble root that sits in a basket on
The microwave waits patiently while sprouting
New life. How long has it been dug and gone
From its cozy burrow? Was it shouting
With all the other spuds being displaced
Forcibly from their dirt-bound domicile,
Saying, “No! We don’t even taste
Good without ample salt and a pile
Of butter!” These are the hypothetical scenes
I dream up as I run the peeler across
Old-eyed taters wondering what it means
That I anthropomorphize a tuber’s home loss.
This soup, though, should taste yummy, I think.
There’s salt, garlic, cream, and wine to drink.
