Angry Spring

The Potato Eaters

by Leonard E. Nathan

Sometimes, the naked taste of potato
reminds me of being poor.


The first bites are gratitude,
the rest, contented boredom.


The little kitchen still flickers
like a candle-lit room in a folktale.


Never again was my father so angry,
my mother so still as she set the table,


or I so much at home.

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