The Humble Spud
Feb 12 2014


The humble spud
is never fussy,
a comfort food

we trust.
Baked or boiled, mashed or fried
a standard, true and tried.

They come from the land
dug from warm brown soil.

So pale flesh

is coyly shy
in unaccustomed sun,

and dirt still clings
to russet skin
sprouting curious buds.

A relative
of deadly nightshade
but blandly innocuous,
this dependable tuber
never hurt anyone.

And frugal, tough
they’re no trouble at all,
unlike rotten tomatoes
bad asparagus.

The fat of the land
buttered, salted, ketchup'd.
A godsend to peasants
who stoop to pluck them free,

the lumpenproletariat
who say

"more potatoes, please."

They favour cool, dark, airy

resting quietly,

where they sit, await our pleasure

vegetatively.
Lumpy, plump

irregular,

much like you and me.