Clouds Gathering over Mt. Mandarin

Here in my dilapidated kiln
Housed inside the former butcher shop
Of sunny suburbia, I tread

Out the teetering wheel of my days.
Silver Elvis of Jesus painters
Wanders in from eternal teaching

Classes next door, cheerful as all hell
That he will be conducting a tour
Of Italian museums next fall.

Someone in the cinderblock distance
Can be heard, muttering, "He should spend
Time at home with his family instead."

I smile at him, nonetheless, although
Looking up from the soiled task at hand
Causes my grip to slip on the clay,

Which spins out of control, tilts the wheel,
And sends my livelihood down the hill
To salute penurious potters

Bemoaning their slavery to craft
In this artisanal world, or else
To repurpose whizzing commonweals.