I rub my hands over the potato
taking off the dirt ratio
from this African skin
which reveals its lone identity
of basic life.

We are all like the potato
enclosed in our environment
which shape and clings to the skin
as we give fruit to our lives.

Our grades are fine
and so our manure.
The odd ones get special treatment
during the drive of the super spud
we lose our own identity.

It falls away against our skin
as one large unit would serve
the purpose of the demand
a demand which consumes
that very individual identity.

How I am glad my potato
that I can still keep you in my hands
and command my own intelligence
to rather consume you
than be consumed by that super norm.

But potato you succeed still
to bring me a stale dish
as you are so many
and my seasoning so little.
How I adore that little
change I can find in you.