584 : The Potato and the Fork

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.

.

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© J Cosmo Newbery 2013

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