A pot has been planted here,
out in the open where the paths meet
and faceless strangers donot usually
feel the need to acknowledge the presence
of other sapient beings.
It is glazed white on a gray base
with delicate flecks of brown and black
marking the spots where the wood shavings
carefully burnt to charcoal
- birthmarks the pot carries
from the fiery womb.
Such a pot would ordinarily be
on a white shelf with its own subtle spotlight
while the people going past
would finger the discreet tag
it wore around its neck,
murmuring at the 4 digit figure they read.
Some hand brought it here
where it cheerfully stands with
the mud staining its pristine base
and the ants and cockroaches
and beetles with nacreous wings
climbing its smooth walls.
We have heard of Urinals in art galleries
but even Duchamp could not concieve
of such a shattering blow
to the very foundations of Art
nor compare to such understanding
of its purpose.