I know not the substance you once held:

food or drink, poison, balm.

For the farmer or his wife,

whose work you did I can not tell.

The potter’s hands that gave you birth

have long ago returned to earth;

and you upon this antiques’ shelf

have wiled years and gathered dust.

I make you mine to hold the past.

I’ll give to you some humble task:

hold copper coins or paper clips

and feel you have purpose yet –

to fill your womb with any what

that I, your newest owner, wants