How potato of you,
noticing with your many eyes
the hunched and gloveless scraping of frost
from the windshield of my car.  Omniscient
of you. Or perceived from your closet
window. Maybe the crack of your door.

And then to bring me a pair
of your own—worn, leather and for the garden.
How warm and hearty,
how rich and filled with starch.

Or Summer in your lawn chair.

My arms filled with groceries
or school books, how you tilt yourself
so your skin appears the most rough and brown,
bruised from the heavy handling
since before you were pulled from the unforgiving earth
by Jesus—who must, from the sounds of it,
live in the apartment
on the other side of you.

How you vegetate so,
arms like vines lifting to light
despite the dark knots
in your stomach, how you manage
to forget the heavy smell
of warm coffee soil,
down here where I live. 
Below.

How like a potato,
to sit away from the birds, smiling,
all ready to fry.