I stared at the pot
I got in Mexico City – a vendor makes them by hand
Only fifty pesos
Its shape was perfectly
imperfect,
slightly lopsided
It didn’t sit atop the table with the symmetric arrogance of machine-made pots, no
no, this pot sat very modestly
Poised and proud,
The definition of function over fashion
–I used it for the latter –
Near the top there was one single fingerprint
A fossil
I imagined myself as the pot
And I weep at the sight of shattered clay on the floor
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