Potato

A  crop  foreign  to  every  land
I  have  lived  in,
and  yet  familiar ,  a  cultural  accomplice
(as  if  we  grow  and  move  in  tandem)
this  humble  potato
shaped  like  a  heart.

Organic  growths  both,
solvent  to  the  senses.

Being  neither  a  cardiologist,
nor  a  lover ,  nor  no  farmer  either,
but  a  poet
I  wondered.

I  could  not  have  grown  it,
nor  can  I  know  it,
nor  offer  it  as  a  token
of  affection.

But ,  it  rested  on  the  kitchen  slab,
as  if  releasing  calories,
the  ideals  of  love
and  nurturing
(your  presence ,  my  heart,
my  body ,  these  carbs)

of  comfort  and  fat
(study  reveals
surge  in  spud  consumption
during  depression  leads  to
weight  retention),

of  culture  and  otherness,
this  bold  immigrant  mingles
with  cuisines :  in  mashes  and  curries.
Will  you  say  'no'  to  this  foreign
born  potato?
(China  and  India  account  for  a  third
of  the  world's  production).

It  had  filled  a  poem.
What  could  it  do  more?
Apart  from  being  fried,
there  was  really  nothing.