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.

 

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Me and my wife live with our wonderful pets. I hope you like my blog finding it informative, meaningful and entertaining. I write about varied subjects having written books for sale on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

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Posted in Poetry of life

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