Clay Pot with Stagnant Water

By Peter Magliocco

His work pants were clay-caked
(& stood up by themselves almost)
when he shed them each night
before my five-year-old eyes.
Where is that long gaze of fate,
invisibly watching, while
we amble slowly through life.
Molding clay for his pottery kiln
into the common sculpture
of ourselves parsed
by his hand to mine.
Wearing his blue yacht captain's hat
& the stained brown shirt,
with cigarette pack bulging pocket,
he's the Dad of my errant childhood
watching me from sepia photos
yet to be snapped in infinity;
the smiling father in his twenties,
not yet completely bald
but knowing time is corrupting
his lineage indefinitely
from the fountain of youth
I was baptized in.


Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's edited the lit-zine ART:MAG for over 20 years. He has poetry in Heeltap, Scythe, Gold Dust, The Medulla Review, This, Deuce Coupe, Dead Snakes and elsewhere. His recent chapbooks are Nude Poetry Garage Sale (Virgogray Press) and Imparadised (Calliope Nerve Media). He was Pushcart Prize nominated for poetry in 2010.