quit putting me on

---

it's only a game, forever. it's only going, and going, and gone. it's only round again, and around again, and winners and losers and around again.

and again.

and again.

it can't possibly keep going like this, but it does, and it does. around again, and again, and again.

"where did you learn to play like that?"

well, by playing, of course.

"where did you study?"

right here - with you - of course.

"are you all done with school?"

never! never! i'm still playing, and i always will be.

of course, of course, of course.

but i'll be damned if i don't play so well.

i've forgotten what it's like not to. how feeble i must have used to be.

and i've never not been the center of attention. never not been so special, so twee.

but i play so well. i've earned it.

i've taken my lumps. i've learned it.

no point in remembering anything else. we simply move on.

we always, always, always keep playing.

there's no going back.

there is only on, and on, and on.

a patina so pretty it practically glows. where it came from, no one really knows.

but beneath the sheen, a pot is a pot. it bubbles and boils and does what it ought.

a pot has no interiority, unless you consider enamel a shield of truer cast iron. a pot has only seniority, in what it has done and will do again.

and a pot is useful, no matter its look. a pot is something you're glad to hang on a hook.

a pot cannot forget. a pot only remembers.

(a kettle can whistle. i cannot.)

i am not a pot. for instance, i am empty.

"you're wonderful."

and don't i just play so well?