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Barefoot on Thin Ice


Ode to a potato
[ With apologies to the reader ]
No two potatoes are alike.
You can tell by their eyes.
They grew up in dirt
But are so doggone cute
When you scrub them.
They don't even scream
When you cut off their skin
And they turn
Glistening white
With a touch of brown.
And take the flavor of the sauce.
I think of my daughter
The day she was born
When I held her
And fed her
And watched her eyes open.
Her language skills were
Fairly marginal
But I could hear her
Lazy primal scream: "Huh?"
She looked a lot like a potato
But I held her like an egg
And sang gently
Of a better life.
 
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