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ODE TO THE POTATO

The potato is poor

with Underground tubes

pointing to the famished

near the Celtic heather

As a little boy

my freckled brother

nursed on potato starch

and thinned potato blood

is parched by hunger,

and blanched by whiteness.

Comes now the Banshee

With a howl and a shriek

To take my peaked brother

From all grounded potaoes.

My Irish mother

Fought like demons possessed

And with her shallaley drawn

Saying, “Bejesus begone!”

We live not on potatoes

Laughter is in our food

And Guinness is in our blood

Though our flesh be fluttered

No Banshee wings off our soul

We both awoke from childhood

Always defending our laughter

Near the Celtic heather;

Laughing at the Banshee

With our ferocious laughs

The Irish potato tube points

Upward from the ground

Newly born Irish younglings

Suckle potato milk and laugh.

 @2026 Sai Grafio