By M. Kelly Lombardi

One potato, two potato,
  three potato, four…
  The old children’s chant
  ran through my mind
  and lodged there
  as I finished peeling
  potatoes to be washed,
  rubbed with butter,
  rolled in herbs,
  and roasted along with
  Guinness Beef to be served
  at lunch. The potato
  chant, what
  does it mean, I wonder.
  Somehow I know it is
  not based on a happy
  occurrence for most
  children’s chants are based
  on something shuddery.
Looking down at the peels,
  brown, beige, soil
  colored, I remembered all
  the nights when the potatoes
  were counted out, one for
  each of five of us, peeled
  thinly, bad spots of soft grey
  and black buds cut out,
  sliced into even slices,
  patted dry, put into
  the heavy black iron skillet
  sputtering with bacon grease
  where the diced onions
  simmered and scented
  the kitchen. Spuds and tears to
  be cooked and served for supper
  on movie-night-dishes
  placed on the old
  painted drop-leaf table
  with the chipped, cracked,
  thread bare in spots,
  oil cloth showing shining
  mouth watering oranges.