I was in an art museum once.
I saw a black and white picture hanging on the wall.
It was of a potato. Nothing else. Just a potato.
I was angry at first. I had just meandered through an exhibit of miniature houses that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete and a crazy amount of attention to detail.
This person took a picture of a potato.
I thought of what my hipster friends would say.
“It’s isn’t just a potato. It’s so much more. It’s art. It probably stands for famine or the Depression or a childhood friend...”
No. It is a picture of a potato.
I thought I would jump on the bandwagon.
So here is my poem:
Potato.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
I was in an art museum once.
I saw a black and white picture hanging on the wall.
It was of a potato. Nothing else. Just a potato.
I was angry at first. I had just meandered through an exhibit of miniature houses that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete and a crazy amount of attention to detail.
This person took a picture of a potato.
I thought of what my hipster friends would say.
“It’s isn’t just a potato. It’s so much more. It’s art. It probably stands for famine or the Depression or a childhood friend...”
No. It is a picture of a potato.
I thought I would jump on the bandwagon.
So here is my poem:
Potato.
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