Prose Potatoes

In reading prose poetry, I am bewildered.  It seems to me when reading this style of poetry, I am looking at an overcooked baked potato.  This object has a crunchy covering,  but the center has shrunk away from the shell, and the butter of my eyes melts into it too easily. I come away feeling unsatisfied.  Maybe I was expecting a different potato because I loved the potatoes of Keats, and Wilde, and Neruda, and Heaney.  Maybe I loved the discovery of the sweet potato fields of  Eliot, or Angelou.  It could be that I found the little red potatoes of John Ashbury, or Rita Dove too tasty.  It is also possible my palate was spoiled by the sweet flitch of Claudia Rankin, or Gregory Pardlo.  Or maybe I will learn to love these potatoes all the same, scalloped or not.  They can be just as tasty, can't they?  Francis Ponge, and his homely potatoes from ordinary dirt still fills the stomach like a good Irish potato.  Could be Russell Edson makes the finest potato pancakes this side of Pennsylvania, complete with the chow-chow I love so much.    And Charles Simic has wonderful chips in his Dime Store Alchemy.  Yes, I think I can learn to love these potatoes, as well, if only I didn't roast them so hard.