Special thanks to my colleague for suggesting the title and some of the imagery of this poem. Who says poetry and work doesn’t mix?

Prompt: Hold that <blank>

Hold that Hot Potato

But not too close to your lips
because my heat burns
through this tinfoil shell.

Take your time peeling back
my russet brown skin, savoring
the hidden virtues of my flesh.

Don’t try to change what I am
by baking me halfway, twice, or thrice,
by turning me into fries or tots,

by mashing me with milk
or whipping me into a fluff.
I’m best served whole,

dressed up however you please:
sour cream and chives,
four-alarm chili with cheese,

pepper and salt with butter
churned to match my perfection,
or simply nothing at all.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013