The Metropolitan Museum of Art Unjustly Jails Amphoras

I am a broken jug, an amphora with no handles,
filled with the vinegar of broken promises and shattered desires
that seep out of my clay, fading glaze of naked greek thighs splashed in rotted wine. •
•
Once I drank the wine of your lips, softer than freshly-pressed olives;
I stored your cinnamon caresses in my crevices.

Now I shed vinegar tears, entombed in a mausoleom of glass,
gawked at by girls who have forgotten Zeus's name. •
I have long forgotten your name, but still taste the sweetness of your honey
pouring into me like Apollo's rays. •

Amorous amphoras sing Aphordite's praises beneath golden linden trees. •

Yet I am deprived even the trees of Central Park - they gave them to the Egyptian
temple,
with its filthy copper coins tossed by those gawking girls,
who have forgotten Horus too, I suppose. • •

I would trade all the linden trees for one more taste of your sweet honey.