Deborah Guzzi

On a rickety folding table amidst greasy wrenches
and rings of skeleton keys, it sits. Each elegant curve
turned-out—rimmed in gold, ablaze in chrysanthemums
of peachy-pink and maizey-yellow.

A taciturn vendor, pumpkin-plump in summer´s steaming
field, roots among his wares. This morning’s shower
dampens hopes of reclaiming, much more than, the cost
of the setup at the muddy fairground.

The warm, casein color of the pitcher’s background
hides behind a crust of dust. The scrolling petals and
leaves of coffee-brown transferware seek a home;
I envision the creamer beside a bowl of wild strawberries.

Long-toothed handsaws, ballpeen hammers, and magazines
from the fifties and sixties, hold their places undaunted by the
fine art aesthetic of the nineteenth century bit of crockery.

I raise the ewer, how much?
Two dollars.

The vendor nods crumpling last week’s newspaper about this
rescued prize. Its crackled surface, awash in moss-green leaves
with a touch oriental splendor, hidden now from seeking
eyes, preparing for a new beginning.