my mind has been seeing warm potter hands
molding a clay bowl on a wheel

ten years from now, i will be married
to a potter with a scruffy beard
an intimidating nature
and an aura my parents hate

tiredness will chase
my battle between stability
and the creative pursuit
i will be home thirty minutes
past my teenage curfew
full of indignation and spirit

there will be an office job left behind
a type writer collecting dust
stacks of bills unpaid
dried clay stuck on my nailbeds