our potatoes in this third generation plastic basket
sit patiently and calmly for longer times than their life
gazing at our skin and its neurodermititis of hunger
with their sand-soaked- steady eyes and happy look
these hard-milk contained and pale skinned proud potatoes
in our mother’s lap, long-vision , lingered-life and little reach
very fondly marry our fat& fathomable purple brinjals to wait for
our belated and monotonous arrival from work
unpeeled in their honeymoon of stove and kerosene
put on fire they boil in their cooking bedroom
half-eaten and left over they lie in gutters of pigs’ surfing
we think when we sleep after eating rotis with potato curry
in our dreams we more often weep than laugh
the burden of public relations and day’s toil.
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