It’s never too early
to start creating your holiday gifts,
read the message from a studio
where one is urged to create
clay-time masterworks
for giving away to friends
and family. This message comes
in early November this year, practically still
in October; elsewhere
they’ve had Christmas stuff out
since September, and the people
responsible for handling that
bitch and moan about it
or else they stop caring about it
and see it as just more crap
they have to — well, handle.
Everything seems to be speeding
up. Months turn into days
turn eventually to seconds
and pretty soon it will all
seem to happen at once.
On that day one will fall to
the once-steady ground
and weep. It’s all so, so
fast; it’s all but impossible
to seize a moment and hang on.
One day a snowstorm will come down
and one shall fling the body nude
out of doors,
into the frigid sunshine
where one will likely die within minutes
or else get bundled up by caring men
and trundled off to an asylum.
But they won’t know what to do
so after a few days, they’ll send you —
for it is you, of course — home.
They’ll watch you like one might watch a snail,
wondering: is he dead or alive?
Either way, they will have to watch you —
and meanwhile, you’ll be sitting
quite still, clutching the cup you made
at the clay-studio. It was,
of course, your holiday gift to yourself.
You made it so long ago —
forgot who it was made for, didn’t you?
Eh — it doesn’t matter. It’s almost Christmas,
though it’s apparently August
and it still feels cold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
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