with those, you apartment dwelling city slicker?
Maybe I’ll home, and have somebody send me some potato dirt. and some potatoes. I’ll fill one of the planters here, plant the potatoes, watch them grow.
In the fall, I’ll harvest the papas, dice them up, throw them in the cast iron with onions, peppers, some chorizo.
The apartment will smell like El Valle. My chin will be stained red. I will wipe up the Manteca with words and poetry.
I’ll take the axe, drive to where there are pinion trees, find one that is silver and dead. I’ll chop off some branches, build me a fire, watch the white smoke rise…
Poetry Overland 