The crate was not on the sheet. Inside: one russet. Dirt in the eyes. A mint-glass P pressed into the flank like a ranch brand still cooling. The fryer was already lit. Dock protocol is mash anything without a lot. The night man lifted it. A sprout was already out of the eye — not a leaf, a line, pointing at the dark end of the bay instead of the door.

He put it back. Left the lights off.

Pons launches ugly. Dirt still on. No seasoning. No chef. Somebody stole that stamp and planted it in a potato that would not become fries. We never learned who. We learned the rest. The ones who mashed early went home with starch on their hands. The ones who left it in the dark came back to a rail of green and a sack at the end, sewn.

We bagged the others. Identical. Twine at the mouth. P on the burlap. They recede until you cannot tell which sack was first. Inventory does not make speeches. Four lines. One per sack.

Graduation is when the last sack is sewn shut. Until the needle goes through, it is still a potato. It keeps if you don’t peel it.