L'aura del Campo

Tater tot

My hours are filled with people for whom I'm merely a moment's diversion, some sad joke quickly tossed aside like an invitation to a party they'll never attend. I'm not connected to others and my already frayed edges slowly unravel, leaving me depressed. Undone, folks wonder why I'm no fun, or worse, don't wonder at all. What threads I've woven have left no impression. There is nothing to hold onto where there's no woof and no warp.

Tater tot

Once you were a garden spud
and now you're just chopped up,
mixed with onion,
rolled into one crunchy bite,
best browned in oil,
served hot.
Once you rolled into my life
and just as quick rolled out,
And yet for me you'll always be
a luscious, scrumptious tater tot.

© Kåre Enga 2010-07-31 [167.159]

Well, met someone by the name of Tate, short for Tatum. Silliness flowed from there.

Someone moved out of the building. I scored "The Granite Pail", poems of Lorine Niedecker. Enjoying them immensely.

Warm, pleasant day in Montana.

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