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      February 6, 20211916Daniel Green

      Potatoes never tasted so good
      as those we roasted in a #2 can,
      punctured with random holes,
      hung like a sling on a rusty wire.
      Two live coals, pilfered from the oven
      snugly shared the can with a potato,
      raw, fetched from home or swiped
      from a grocer’s sidewalk bin.
      We swung this little furnace, a sparking,
      homemade bellows, fired the embers,
      adding a musical whirr, light and sound
      to ease the winter’s chill.
      Timed to a T, the blackened spud
      burst open to show the steaming
      white delight. Some young gourmets
      sprayed on a pinch of salt.
      We didn’t care that lips and hands
      were stained with soot, we felt
      no winter cold on Ghetto streets.
      We shared the warmth of camping out.

      from Issue #10 - Winter 1998

      Daniel Green

      “The few days I don’t write become a desert for me. Themes and words scream past my thoughts. I’m compelled to seize them as seeds, fix them on a yellow pad, and hope they’ll come alive.”