In
the North, November is the month when cold winds blow,
and strip the trees of golden leaves before the coming snow.
In
stony fields the cold earth yields to harvesters its fruits
as
digging shares relentlessly tear up the tasty roots.
Then
caught up in a system that is larger than themselves,
the
spuds are lifted up mechanically to picking shelves,
where
Latin girls with glistening curls pluck out each haulm and clod,
like
angels who send goats to Hell and spare the sheep for God.
The
large and firm are washed and graded US Number One,
then sent off to fine restaurants before the day is done.
The
knobby and misshapen are dumped into plastic bins;
they’re
second class potatoes, for second class citizens.
Potatoes that are mashed and served with turkey, squash and peas
when once a year we volunteers fix homeless folks a feast;
and
all the while we laugh and smile, at jokes and gentle ribbing,
then when we're through, share a brew, our due for virtuous living.
Still let’s be sure to thank these poor, for enriching our Thanksgiving.
