I was born a potato, but I wasn’t born to be a potato, if you catch
my drift. The recruiting posters tricked me. That red white and blue
Yankee Doodle jim-dandy Mr. Potatohead pointing his finger at me.
Be all the potato you can be. Ha! With a break or two, I could’ve
been something the besotted send along with a valentine to their
beloveds. Like a rose, say, a rhyming poem, a box of chocolates.
But we potatoes, we don’t know how to speak up for ourselves.
We’re too quiet. Because there aren’t many things that make less
noise than potatoes, you think we don’t have dreams, or feelings.
A spud can be hurt. Really. So watch what you say when you’re
frying or mashing, baking or boiling. And don’t blame me if you eat
too darn much of us and end up looking like the sack we come in.
Poem by Joe Smith
Illustration by Honoria Starbuck