• You take that chilly chunk of earth-colored clay from the large pile;
    Place the cool lump on the stone turning table,
    Letting it spin, spin.
    You use your clean hands to shape it,
    Give it definition,
    Make a glorious body and face.
    You grin sweetly, quite pleased.
    Around and around it goes.
    You place your muddy palms and dirtying fingers over and about,
    Enjoying everything you can with the misshapen figure.
    On and on you believe you are creating.
    Redefining is all it is.
    “Make more of the clay”,
    You say.
    The wet clay is handed a new character.
    You blink and sigh,
    Finally finished.
    You leave the new figure to dry on a steel table.
    A day passes,
    You return with an apologetic smile.
    Paint brush in a rough hand,
    Bold colors splashed across the lid;
    Bright dyes streaking about the pot;
    Soft pastels blown onto a spout.
    Beads of sweat fall down your dusty face;
    Your chap lips bend into a frown.
    Seeing the mistakes you’ve made,
    The flaws on your little teapot,
    You thrust it against the wall.
    It smashes upon impact,
    Shattering onto the floor below.
    You throw a wooden stool down,
    Leaving this memory behind.
    A young man walks in,
    Kneeling next to the broken pieces.
    He says,
    “That silly boy, if he let her down easy, she would still have a fighting chance.”