Potato Sack

From the cool dark pantry,

the bag of potatoes.

Rough. Scratchy.

The coarse weave catching on my skin.

Leaving tiny blonde fibers,

a faint memory of earth

on my palms.

It smells of dirt and storage,

of something essential,

but uncomfortable.

Not meant for softness.

Just for carrying weight.

For holding things that bruise easy

but need to last.

It never pretends to be smooth.