Porcelain Fire Hydrant

A faint little Nick-nack

Sitting on my father’s desk

Stolen from a Fire Station

One Halloween for no other reason

Than the story it would bring

 

A funny story for a funny toy

Untouched by kids afraid

Not of shattering its fragile frame

But disturbing the sacred dust

Gathered since before we knew life

 

It is more than a keepsake

He is more than his stories

 

It gathers dust

But its existence on the desk

Stands as the only gift self-given

The only present on Halloween

A surprise from his intoxicated alter ego

 

It gathers dust

But it still glows red

Every time it brushes your eye

 

It gathers dust

But his stories shift with age

Both for the storyteller

and his audience

 

I refuse to accept

That any day he will break

Fall off the desk

And shatter into porcelain pieces

 

I refuse to accept the inevitable

Yet lay awake at 3 AM

Thinking of the sound

The crack when that porcelain

Finally hits the floor

 

I will put him back together,

Glue in hand,

Back together until he is unrecognizable

Both in his physical form

And my memory

 

I will reattach his broken pieces

Until the glue dries and get peeled off my hands

But I will never replace him

Nor forget his small

Comical presence

On the desk at home

PoetryDylan ZucatiDad, poetry