royal tuberosity
majesty of mash
mudder spud
crisped, crinkled
rippled, pringled
teetering towers of tater tots
palaces of perfect puffs
here, no poutine is routine
curd is the word
gravy waves
praise all toppings:
ketchup, cheese, chives, chilli,
sour cream, bacon bits – whatever you want
keep the home fries burning
for the French fry floozie with the frites, frites, frites
once, we noshed on the knish
on kugel (if you were a Litvak)
on kigel (if you were a Galitzianer)
and at the throne
of the king of schmaltz – the latke
but now, we kneel at the Holy Grail,
the lowly white cardboard carton,
annointed with salt, vinegar and circles of grease,
sinful white flesh under crisp golden skin
too hot
but eaten stick by stick
steam bursts heat
until the final reward
tiny delights of brown at the bottom
the last desperate crunch
