So put away all those potato peelers you're gluing together to build a giant potato sculpture and enjoy....
THE TUBER'S SUBTERRANEAN BLUES
"Where your body's buried, that's where I'm warm, where worms crawl in your eye sockets, that's where I'm born," Anne sang in a gruff voice while rocking back and forth in her seat. The entirety of her baked potato danced on top of her plate with her fork acting as its artificial backbone.
"Stop playing with your food," Anne's father - all two-hundred and seventy-six pounds of him - hollered from across the table. "Your mother made that with love. Show some respect."
And he threw his knife at her as an afterthought of an exclamation point. Anne ducked and slid under the table with her forked food.
In her mind this potato was a broken-down version of that bumpy-round man sitting above the table. In her hard-hearted heart of hearts she hated her father. She believed that he was a potato who had grown slowly and painfully into a man. She sometimes thought she heard him whispering in the strange, ugly tongue of potatoes.
Under the table she curled up, bit her arm and wondered what percentage of her body was made up of potatoes.