integrity of the sweet potato

My therapist asked me:

"WhAt Is It YoU tHiNk Of

WhEn YoU sTaRe At ThE wAlL fOr HoUrS oN eNd?"

I told her:

"Carefully I am planning my life

to imitate the integrity

of a sweet potato

cooked with chronological care:

not as a thanksgiving yam --

overdone, soft

beaten, whipped,

and marshmallowed,

sickly nutrasweeted

to a hybrid cross

of butterfinger bar

and cotton candy,

no.

Not as strained orange Gerber glop

on a baby's bib or cheek,

no.

But gently levered from the ground,

washed until this earth no longer clings to it,

cubed by cleaver,

boiled just long enough

to a proper tuberous density

that crunches between molars

resisting the fibers

just an al dente moment.

Natural wholesomeness

unadorned by societal

processing."

"AHa," said my therapist,

as she wrote in her notebook:

"AnOtHeR cAsE oF sAcChArInIcAl BeTa-CaRoTeEnY tUbErMaShApHoBiA,

cOmPoUnDeD bY eXcEsSiVe ReGuLaRiTy..."

- Dick Hacken