Pitcher Poem by Morgan Michaels

I love my milk-green pitcher
Molded to exactly the shape you'd hope:
Base-bulbous, flared at the mouth
Perfectly pinched at the waist
Gracious. Curvaceous, like a Gibson girl
Or an oil lamp from the nineties;

Not because it came from France (Dorgoin)
And, old as the hills, is green as a grasshopper,
Holds the right amount of cold water
And is chipped (almost imperceptibly)
At the spout: no,
Nor for its belt of runic import;

Nor that its easy getting
One day in a thrift shop on Christopher (long gone)
Spoils of some estate sale
Underscores a certain good taste
(I know a collectible when I see one)
And calls to mind rambunctious youth;

Nor even that, set like a sentry
On a tile scrawled with arabesques
Sounding a sotto reveille, bidding
'Water the flowers, already, ils meurent de soif'.
(Purpose cadged in a list of things to do)
Not even for that alone;

But for all the above:
Green pitcher, you please me with your gourd shape,
Your green hue, your easy
But inexorable duty call. It all makes sense-
And for a moment, you explain
A senseless world:

Because someone (long gone) fashioned you
Towards an end pointed and agreeable
And made you beautiful.
Because it's better that way, no?
Everything beautiful and purposeful
Better than everything troublesome and dull.