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the tangible teapot
If this teapot was my anger
I would look at it with disdain
I would think about what a judgmental teapot it was
I would wonder how it even called itself a teapot.
If my frustration was this teapot.
My problems might be solved.
I could donate the teapot to Vinnies.
I could smash it and make it into a mosaic.
The teapot would look smug and self-righteous
It would belittle the other teapots around it
It would criticize them,
Saying their strainers were letting in too many dregs
Or that their shape was too bulbous, or too squat.
When I looked at the teapot
I would feel so sad
That the teapot was looking at what was wrong with all the other teapots
And even with the cups and saucers, and plates and the cutting board.
That the teapot wasn’t enjoying being a teapot,
That the teapot didn’t really talk to the teapots that made different kinds of tea.
That the teapot didn’t really make much tea anymore.
