Ode to the Potato

From this plastic dirty heavy bag: mashed, smashed, Lyonnaised, waffled then curly, baked once, twice, stuffed, hash- browned, American fried, French and freedom too, cottaged, souffléd, whipped lightly as it was their fault - buried in coals, en-foiled or bare, its slice raw sparkling wetly a grinding of salt - so hopeful the morning of bacon; a promise of egg, chive or shallot... a brown lumpy ugliness swells shy with eyes and skin, budge buttered truffles what fed my mother's rooted country peel, my father's mess hall contribution, my instant college box of flakes.