Poem Hunter
A Hundred Pounds Of Clay
CB (May 3,1962 / United States)

A Hundred Pounds Of Clay

A hundred pounds
Of clay went
Into the first wound
Fired by the jagged
Seams of polite society.
Thin excuses over thick
Slices of etiquette
Dictated by a dead queen
Who never asked me
To tea. I don't think.
I never checked my
Social calendar for
Curled up messages dipped
In coffee full of creamy
Crap-ful of nothing
Important, there I
Bleed. Dare I?
On the rug of more
Important things than
One dog's tears.
Two paws dig deep
To bury nothing much
Except my pride as
I dip my bone in
Again, and sip it
Dry. The ceramic
Breaks under a push
And prod of skinny
Feet and I tap my
Flesh to see if the seal

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