Have you ever exploded a potato?

Not poked enough fork holes and made

an unintentional bomb

inside your own oven?

Well, apart from being a mess, it begins

with a sound,

one not unlike an overripe pineapple

dropping onto your roof.

And the ears up, animal attention wanting

to locate what on earth

just happened.

Then, maybe, the run towards the baking tubers,

ready to investigate.

Tip open the door, hesitantly, and there it is,

splattered across every surface in tiny

pieces. And a laugh

when you spot an emptied skin,

shell of the bursted culprit, at the verrrrry back

bottom, well beyond reach.

Swear to god it’s smiling there

resting hollow

and strong.

‘Ahahaaa,’ it says, ‘and that!

is my end.’