Tattoos in Mayberry

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An organic potato began sprouting in a plastic bag
in our kitchen.
He lay crowded at the bottom,
under the other potatoes,
who were uniformly smooth, normal.
Sprout was the smallest of them all.
The runt of the litter.
His roots were so persistant,
they broke through the plastic.
My first impulse was to fry all the others immediately,
save an inssurection,
then toss Sprout into the trash.
His relatives weighing heavily upon him,
seemed helpless to make Sprout understand his place.
Maybe, one out of several thousand store bought
Russet potatoes
go on to be planted in a garden.
Yet, Sprout didn't know or care about any of that.
He was doing what he was destined for..
To grow, andevole into a potato plant.
Carefully,
placing him on a cutting board,
I cut out Sprout's eye
then diced him into bite-size pieces,
I shoveled him into my frying pan,
thick with searing hot cooking oil.
I felt conflicted .
Could his brothers and sisters
watching from the bag,
be mourning Sprout,
this Russet Individualist,
or were they gloating over his demise?

Buddy Bee Anthony


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