|
Death by Potato Chips
by Mary Ellen Smith
those fine round russets
with those all seeing eyes
plucked from their warm earthen beds
corralled into cold baths
in steel tubs.
each one shivers,
naked, peeled and thinly sliced.
they tumble into
boiling vats of bubbling oil
the essence of spent sunflowers
or peanuts.
browned, they rise
and not so gently dumped out,
the survivors
are salted to taste.
03/16/2005 Author's Note: Inspired by a tasty bag of kettle style potato chips....
Posted on 03/16/2005
Copyright © 2024 Mary Ellen Smith
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/16/05 at 08:13 PM Nifty descriptiveness from start to finish Mary Ellen. One of my few cullanary weakeness and life long loves is the potato, so thanks muchly for sharing this. |
| Posted by Charles E Minshall on 03/19/05 at 05:31 AM Ah yes good to the last crunch...Charlie |
| Posted by Adrian Calhoun on 03/19/05 at 10:11 PM LOL clever M.E. I too am addicted to these little slices of spud. |
| 
