February 6, 20211916
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.