The Potato Eaters Poem by Martin Lochner

Father's anger
never showed
by strap or rod.

Leaving the house
he unwound his
stiff coiled shoulders.

Violently breaking the soil,
extracting the evening's meal,
cluttering our stomachs

with too much potato;
spud and sour cream milk.
Sunburned, he viciously watched us eating,

telling us about orphan hunger.
Nobody dared leaving
that table with the plate full.

Going to sleep
Father listened tunes on fine music radio and we,
bloated with heartburn, missed mommy.


Beautifully poignant ending.