Daydreamers, A Poem✔️

Chapter 2

There is a rhythm to throwing clay;

I'd even go as far as to say a monotony.

You center it, raise it, and—

Maybe create.

I'm not good at art,

But it's calming to know—

There is one thing I can fail,

And nobody will know.

My lopsided forms are meditation.

So, yes, I am grumpy when interrupted.

Willow?

Hmmm?

Hey—Johnny repeats.

He rubs the back of his neck.

I have a question about prom.

I perk up.

I was wondering if Lee has a date?

I blink three times—

Before I say, "No?"

He smiles.

Awesome.

Ask her for me?

Sure—between clenched teeth.

Thanks!

I throw my wad of clay in a plastic bag—

Wondering if I'll need to use it in case I hyperventilate.

I run dirty fingers through my light brown hair—

To pull it up into a ponytail.

If Johnny is too scared to ask,

Then he's not brave enough. 

In fact, I don't think I am bound to tell—

Anyone at all.