Geoffrey Cradles a Baked Potato
Geoffrey cradles a Wendy's baked potato in his hands
and, for some reason, thinks of England.
He remembers the bus rides
from Stourport-on-Severn to Birmingham,
with his father to visit the museum,
only to find it closed.
He remembers walking by the huge German bomb
still stuck,
fins up,
unexploded,
in the cracked concrete sidewalk,
protected now by a metal fence.
He remembers his naive disappointment
that the bomb hadn't exploded,
or,
that the museum had still not been repaired
and opened to the public.
But,
at nine years old
his disapointment was easily assuaged
by a bag of hot brazier-baked potatoes,
and a paper wrapped pinch of salt
to dip them in.
Geoffrey will eat his Wendy’s baked potato
as he stares aimlessly out the window at reflections
of his past, present and perhaps his future.
He is nine years old, or ninety.
He hopes the museum will be closed
the next time he comes,
bomb or not.
He likes the spuds, but,
he hopes the bomb will be gone.
