Imaginary Garden with Real Toads invites us to write a love letter
between two inanimate objects. This is more a love story than a love letter,
but on a quiet Sunday morning, close enough.
The Potato and the Fork
In the darkness of the kitchen,
When all the work was through,
A piece of cutlery took the chance
To do what love must do:
He meekly asked a potato
“What sort of fruit are you?”
The spud, it was the starchy type,
Not one for idle talk,
It mixed with all the proper folk,
Like lamb and beef and pork,
And felt it had a place in life
Above a common fork.
But the fork, it still persisted
(Though you have to wonder why)
It summoned all its courage
And had another try—
“Potato dear, I must confess,
You're the apple of my eye!”
“Sod off, you little prong-y thing!”
(The reply was rather tart)
“My mother told me of your type
And I’m not about to start;
You get behind my defences
Then pierce me through the heart!”
“Not true!” the fork cried, in dismay,
“Your mother has it wrong!
My uncle was a tuning fork
Here, let me sing a song!”
He then sang of his forky love,
Of passion hot and strong.
Oh, the potato, she was smitten,
Her heart was all aflutter,
In the face of the fork’s hot love
She melted just like butter,
“That’s not a good analogy”
Her Mother’s ghost would utter.
It’s said in war and also love
That everything is fair,
And so it came to pass one night,
Upon some dinnerware,
The fork fulfilled his destiny
And skewered his pomme de terre.
© J Cosmo Newbery 2013
---Print this post