On Potatoes and Poetry

So, by now, you all probably know how I feel about the potato. I translated parts of this post into a poem. I thought I'd share, brave little soul that I am.

Potato

Humble, on the counter top,
waiting for the scrub,
the knife, the boil, the oven.
A little hero, ready to sacrifice,
to take what the world
throws at it:
salt, cheese, butter, rosemary,
and on a bad day, gravy.
Ready to rescue us from
hangovers, colds, and the cruelest
of moods, the potato presents
itself, in the vegetable bowl,
a little friend, ready to spend
the night because we are lonely,
to let us stay over on a
rainy morning, to pour us a drink
and watch some bad television.
The potato does not expect
our repentance for lying
about the Visa bill, for letting
the ivy die, for not washing
the gym clothes.
The potato is forgiveness for being
human, and for much lesser
sins, dug up,
dusted off, and given to us.