Potatoes and the Abyss

In this world where I wander, Or perhaps it is another,
From the edge of madness,
I stare into the abyss,
I see reflected in the darkness,
My own visage mired in weakness,
With neither joy nor sorrow,
It walks with me as I follow,
The chasm edge in measured walking pace.

Turning back towards my home,
Far away from Mecca or Rome,
Situated on grassy gnoll,
Looking like a giant dinner roll,
My house, a lump of bread upon the sea.

But bread it isn't,
On closer inspection,
I realize with resolute dejection,
That the house is built of tubers not of wheat.

I'm not surprised,
I've seen it before,
But somehow I still yearn for more,
Maybe carrots, apples, or even decadent wheat.

I shuffle into my potato mound,
To find my mashed potato bed,

Lying down into the mush,
I am enveloped by starchy comfort,
There I sleep in wait for my Missus to come home.

Every evening, bearing potatoes,
She comes shuffling in to greet me,

I wonder if it is the potatoes that make it so one must shuffle.

She is starving and exhausted from farming potatoes all day long.

I take two potatoes from many we have piled in the back and cook them so that we don't die.

She eats her potato,
Thanks me kindly,
Then she shuffles off to her starchy slumber.

Now alone again, surrounded by potatoes,
I realize how lucky we are to have so many,
She brings in truckloads of potatoes every day,
Far more than we can eat.

There are many who cook only what they bring home,
Having no pile to speak of,
So I am grateful for the potatoes,
Though still I wish for more.
It seems as though one can never have too many potatoes,
Though we're not sure what we'd use them for.

Eventually I tire of the potatoes and I shuffle off to my own carbohydrate cocoon.