Moist clay, pure like the kind from art class
So grey it’s maybe green, lays at the bend
in the creek like a bald fingertip
It wants to be made into something
ugly or beautiful--it does not matter
but it can wait no longer; it is bursting
bubbles of shifting air in anticipation
of BECOMING. It was aspirational clay;
its hero the swath of wet, marginally
cohesive strip of dirt that was used
to form Adam. The clay wanted to be great.
Greater than the David. Greater
than Bon Jovi. It wanted to inspire.
And make people cry.