Teapot

Perspective from a controlling father.

The teapot is too loud for me,

the hot whistle offensive,

porcelain roses dull.

See how it talks like a wife,

nagging me to grab my suit?

The teapot is too lovely for me,

empty-headed in its posture,

handle so fragile it broke.

See how it cries like my daughter,

collapsing in a moment of absence?

But look, it sits nicely on my shelf,

high above the uglier ornaments,

out of the reach of God.