The hint of smoky sweetness wafts over the dusty smog of the city
As I carry my Monday morning hangover face to work.
It carries with it a portent
Of a benevolent sun warming up my patch of checked gingham
Amid yowling dogs and bawling kids in my neighborhood park
This sweet potato on a stand beguiles you into believing
That there might be a cherry blossom
That will break out of the concrete jungle
This winter.
The misshapen body cased in brown
Yields a tender kernel of surprise.
Worn hands with a single perfectly manicured fingernail painted fire-engine red
Cajole the creamy whiteness out of its charred skin
They flick some magic powder out of an old plastic tin,
That had enjoyed its moment of glory under the spotlights at a department store
Many summers ago.
A fine dust
Covers the naked tuber in new clothes.
A drizzle of a young lemon’s fresh juices
Makes up my potato’s sweet face.
A single spoonful makes its way down my gullet
Creating a map
With cockle-warming grids in my belly
This spud of joy
Is my herald
To the first nip of winter.
