Hand of Clay

I am in the 8th grade,
A far walk past the
Sunshine Ranch road YMCA
Where I work after school
In the concession stand
Selling ice cream, candy
Hot dogs and soft drinks.
In the summer I am also
A gym instructor.
I do not know how to
Make fresh coffee until a
Lady customer shows me.
I trudge to work from art
Class and put the gray-green
Finely detailed clay hand
I have sculpted into the ice
Cream bin on top of the
Ice cream sandwiches
To protect it from the heat.
Later I am away for a minute
To help some kid when I
Hear a blood-curdling scream
From the concession stand,
It is the attractive secretary
Whose office is adjacent.
I and others rush to help her,
She is upset and shaken.
When she reached into the
Ice cream bin to filch an
Ice cream sandwich she
Inadvertently picked up
My sculpted hand
And screamed.
I calmly explain I
Sculpted it in art class
And it is not real, just cold.
This does not seem to have
Much of a calming effect.
Things settle down and
I go back to selling hot dogs
And soft drinks but there
Is a suspicion that the
Hand just seems too real
And I am asked to show
It to senior staff again
To prove it is just clay.
I am flattered and at the
Same time bemused
By the interest in my
Sculpture as more than art.
The secretary is unhappy
To be caught with her
Hand in the ice cream bin
And gives me a frown.
I try to set things right by
Telling them the artist
Must live to create
And not create to live,
But it falls on deaf ears.
Feats and hands of clay.