He slinks around in a navy-blue hoodie and sweatpants,
black leather gloves pulled over his hands to hide
several missing digits, my fault for not shaping
five good fingers from the left-over cheese and crackers.
Now he looks like Elmo from Sesame Street,
only no red fur, and not as cheerful.I’d hoped for him to like his job, to drink from the trees
heavy with downpour, let me know why the world’s a glass shard?
Sure, so many times I’d promised myself to take art classes
instead of dabbling around in the mystic occult,
pay closer attention to temporal life instead of reading
Mishnah to understand what other people have said. Shit.
It’s time to head back to the pottery wheel even if parking
down by the studio is non-existent. . .
