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.