mornings—in June you simply can't
escape the oily
pungent smell
of waxy
potatoes frying—
off to some pale ideal of
lucidity
in burnt-iron troughs of cheap
grease.
Imagine over-
abundant mounds
of russets cajoling red-
golds maybe
even fingerlings—torched
crisp and lingering imperatives
to crack and
break your fast—
but also just soft
and bland and brown
and plain-
as-day enough to quickly
fix it.
