The mashed mudita
A yukon gold potato
Victim of hunger
Like sawdust and sand
Served upon a plate called life
With “such” seasoning
Where, the former care?
What happened to the feeling
Of slow enjoyment?
Hands, finding the form
That hides beneath summer soil,
Gift of sweet treasure?
Somewhere, on the way
Joy of life and sustainment
Turned to food for feast
Sacrifice to teeth
Always so ready to bite
Sharp, ever needy
Soft sense of maitri
Melting like pat of butter
Over cooked, split form
Plate upon table
Metaphor, the meal of life
A boiled potato
Mashed, cut into halves
By the knife of our choices
We cling to the skin
Sprinkled with spices
Anger, hatred, and desire
Soothed by pats of love
A meditation
On early weekend morning
Seeking nourishment
Proximity is not permission. Access is not authorization. Identity is declared, not assigned. Even * said, “I am.”
Fair Warning: I’m nice until you’re not… FAFO.
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