He of one leg
spins pots in chains.
Writers dope deuces like
Give me silver or either Gold
though dangerous to our Soul
On the twenty seventh of July
One-thousand and eighteen forty
a man stuck in red clay—never
a run-away except in his mind.
In Carolina he gave his jars
plenty of lip. They still run
they mouths every
which way for
Dave.
Reprinted from Praise Songs for Dave the Potter: Art and Poetry for David Drake, edited by P. Gabrielle Foreman. Copyright © 2023 Glenis Redmond. Reprinted with permission of University of Georgia Press.