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Poem

A day meant for repose and renewal?
And planning ahead for the week to come
He sat with a barrel under his knees
Calm in demeanor with eyes at ease
He peeled potatoes in quantities of many
His hands must of felt crude and stingy
From the iodine reaching his cut callous hands
The aroma of sauteing onions rising in the kitchen
It was a chilly snowy day with the warmth of cooking in the air
Potatoes lined the cutting board
The racket of the large cutting knife was all I heard
So many shapes of difference 
Some potatoes with eyes and knots 
Some had none 
My heart lumped with sheer anticipation 
For all his work on the potatoes soup and it’s preparation 
Oh, all the hours of my sensors in endless ample delight 
As my tongue waited patiently for the night
Thank God for Sundays and a day of rest 
But at least for me 
Until his is done and then I’ll have to clean up the mess

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