The potman and I

The Pot Man and I

I sit upon the cold, stone bench.

Embellished along the edges stationary eyes peer into the garden.

Rested by my side, my friend's deep clay potted body has been scorched from the sun.

Green crisp plants cascade like waterfalls from his jointed knees, elbows, and head.

Grey straw and a sloppy bow around his neck top off his appearance.

My tiny feet barely hit the jungle of hostas in bloom below.

Their buds of lavender sing to the sun.

I'm impatient but content in the black and white checkered dress.

Cute daisy buttons match the yellow zig zags that walk clumsily across the bottom.

A loosely fitted sun hat of straw includes a vibrant larger than life sunflower.

It shades my face and protects me from blinding light.

Facing my back, the wooden grey fence covered in knot holes serves as a home.

To hungry ants who scamper along the back in search for food.

My friend flourishes, at his younger age.

No more secrets and no more laughter.

His one and only has abandoned him.