thoughts contained in nothing run out, water
leaking from a cracked urn, and where is keats
to chronicle its ode? but, no, it is
not graced with fauns nor bacchants dancing nude;
indeed it is but a whitewashed vessel
of no particular pedigree, banal
and lonesome for its homeliness, common
enough to be found at any flea market
or the roadside shop of curiosities
pretentious of antiquity . . . yet each
urn unto itself’s unique, and this one
carries wine as well as whiskey, water,
and champagne. it begs now and then down from
its plinth to come and with its fellows mingle.

dmpitchford