Clay

there is a marker

on the spot

I will lie

dust molded

in new clay

by old and

young hands

I will be

a future potted

plant

you

may be

made into

someone’s

coffee

cup.

I remember

I loved

working with

clay as a

child

the feel of it

squeezed and

oozing between my

tiny potter fingers

the earthy smell

of wet clay

the ashtray I made

baked in

the school oven

for my parents

who smoked what

was to

unmercifully

kill them

both

dead

many

years

later.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s