Coping with first world problems in a third world through poetry. (Or reasons why I should never rhyme)
Oil. The essence of this abroad life
Potatoes. We cut them with a sharp knife.
Into the giant vat. Spizzle. Fizzle.
Soon the katorshka frite starts to sizzle.
Dinner once again has begun to fry
The third time this week. I think with a sigh.
Add a dollop of this ketchup-like sauce
Or eat them plain, with an oily gloss.
On occasion we may eat them with meat
But all day, every day: katorska frite.
Versatile. A blank canvas on my plate
Yet nightly, the same destiny and fate.
No child. You cannot have that delectable cake.
Not until you eat your katorska frite. Gir. Gir. Take.
It’s only food my mother gave me when I was ill
The plethora of fries on my plate formed a hill.
All our nutrition from a single meal,
Their presence is overwhelmingly real.
Dreams of osh palov begin to surface
A plate of rice, with a carrot-y lace
Maybe one day, something new I will eat
But until then, it’ll be katorska frite.