The Potato

I opened the fridge and found nothing,

just empty shelves,

a single potato in the crisper,

and a bottle of oil on the shelf.

No one's coming to feed me.

No one's going to help me

turn this into something real,

something that tastes like care.

I pulled out the potato,

found the knife,

realized I had to do this,

had to learn how to make

almost nothing

into food.

The knife felt strange at first.

I kept going anyway,

cut the potato into pieces,

heated the oil,

watched it brown.

The kitchen smelled like something

I had made myself.