When I peel potatoes, I put my head down,
as if I am still following orders and being loyal
to my commander. I feel a connection across
time to others putting their heads down
in fatigued thought, as if this most natural
act signified living the way I wanted to,
with the bad spots cut out, and eluding
my maker. Instead of cobwebs, tumult,
and dragons, I experience an abundance
of good things, like sunlight leaking through
tall pines in the backyard. I say to myself:
This is certainly not a grunt’s knowledge—
perception of a potato as my own soul—
but a sturdy, middle-aged, free man’s.