Play - Doh

There was nothing more satisfying to my young fingers

than the chance to squeeze and massage

a soft and pliable lump of Play-Doh,

making it into anything I could imagine,

oh how I loved the many colors and that special doughy smell,

for a while it was the most important passion

of my simple adolescent life.

 

I dreamed Play-Doh objects,

lived for that next chance to make another mound

into some animal or special form.

Even had a small press that had different molds

so I could produce stars, block and tubes.

 

The morning didn’t come in my mind

unless my hands had touched that little mixture of thrills,

afternoon was never complete

without at least one or more souvenirs of my labors.

Night was agony if some hour didn’t happen

where I could spend more time producing my crafted gems.

 

How I loved to place them on a shelf,

felt so filled with pride from their presence

as if I was a genius of sculpting

and they were all masterpieces.

 

One day I was given chores to do

couldn’t keep my rendezvous with my Play-doh obsession,

fretting as if the world was going to die

because I had failed to make another creation.

 

But it didn’t cease and slowly I discovered

the sun hadn’t stop shining,

winds still blew and nobody really even noticed

what to me had been reality.

 

Went out later and strolled among neighborhood,

got included in a game of baseball,

yet for some reason

didn’t even stress if I hit a home run or struck out.