Pots

        The ingredients of this story (pots and poor people) might at first glance seem a curious combo. But don’t be deceived. A tad of mixing, a mite of stirring, and a pinch of luck will, hopefully, give the blending a proper texture.

         It’s very easy for me to “relate and identify” with poor people, and really, there’s no great aura of mystery why this is possible. Quite a distance back down the road I reached that towering pinnacle to which all needy folks aspire and strive---“the bottom of the barrel.”

         Today I can proudly proclaim I don’t have one of those world-renowned pots you’ve heard so much about. Surely you know which utensil I have reference to---the versatile that serves so many worthwhile and noble purposes. Mostly it’s used as a “collector” when excess body fluids must be periodically drained off.

         Only a small amount of self-pride has prevented me from reporting in, long ago, to the nearest “poorhouse.” Now however, I greatly fear the teensy- weensy bit of that face-saving commodity I’ve been able to retain is gradually eroding and slipping away.

         This is a golden opportunity to extend sincere and heartfelt thanks to those who have made it so easy for me to attain this lofty goal. Without their unselfish effort and deep personal sacrifice, who the hell knows---I mighta’ had money!

         Everyone is fully aware of the worry and bother the “green stuff” can cause, and the insurmountable problems a bank-account can present.

         With money I could buy a pot. Then I’d want another. Hey man, two ain’t enough---better I have  four! Better still, eight pots should be placed at strategic locations throughout every household!

         It’s  the old and vicious circle known as greed, greed, greed---and then add a smidgen of greed. Spare me from that scene.

         I get pot, somebody else want---maybe even take. Far better I have no pot.

         First and foremost my undying gratitude goes out to those most benevolent of all benefactors, the utility companies of America. Their role on my behalf was a major one, and I’d just like them to know I’m thrilled, elated and deeply appreciative.

         The lyrics and melody of “The Impossible Dream” are beautiful and haunting, and only the unrelenting efforts of our utility companies enabled me to realize my very own (not havin’ a pot). An eternal note of indebtedness to these charitable people.

         Poor people can look forward to two bright spots in life. But really, even these carry morbid overtones. Death-row inmates can request a scrumptious last meal: steak with all the trimmings or, if they prefer---a Big Mac!

         And the rest of us poor un’s? Well, we can each write our own epitaph. It’s rumored American corporations, thanks to huge profits, are about to establish a new program called “Tombstones for Paupers.”

         If enough cash can be set aside to purchase even a tiny one for me, here’s what I’d like to see etched and inscribed on that cold slab of granite:

                                      Riches were not his lot,

                                      His last dime now they’ve got,

                                      The man in this hole,

                                      May God bless his soul,

                                      Cause he never had a pot.

The End      

M. L. Wilkinson      

June, 1984