Why There Are So Many Poems
Did you know the potato dreams
of being an onion? It would give
its eyes for all those layers which peel
away so easily, each one revealing
a new flawless surface. Instead the knife
exposes its single nature: honest
laborer whose skin cannot be freed
from ingrained dirt. Of course it craves
richer flavors, but no fancy dressing
can raise it much above cattle fodder.
No-one explains to this poor, stupid
starch: we cannot afford to let
the things we live off make us weep.