You boil potatoes

On a day with grey newspaper skies,

Grey pots,

Grey, musty air.

 

Not far removed from days

When nations searched the soil

For roots and redemptions

 

And trusted hard, tired men

In cold stone towers

By the boiling seas,

To hoard earth-rich potatoes,

Food of the toilers.

 

You toil

Through your afternoons

Failing to appreciate

The roots of things.

 

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