Monday, May 22, 2017

A poem about disappearing pots

On my January walks
bright Talavera plant pots
graced one end of the
Baja ceramics lot on Burnside
I promised myself
one, maybe two
when spring came,
imagining their blues and yellows
on my front porch
welcoming me home

Then March came
and the pots were gone
Every single one

On the second to the last day of April
I walked over to Burnside
spoke to the slacker on duty
--ignoring the oxymoron
He'd no idea what I was talking about

Had I dreamed them
to get me through the winter grays?

They're online, of course
But I wanted a live array
Dozens to touch before choosing
The one, maybe two
for my front porch

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