THE TEAPOT The drained aluminum teapot sat On the edge of the Stanley 8 range, Waiting. >From work, the once bright frame Was now bruised, contorted, The lid bald without its black Bakelite crown. The vent was long stuffed, Its spout running slow Like an old artery closing down. To aize the twisted fingers, the riveted Handle was bandaged With strips torn from a Millford flour bag. That winters night, the house was opened. Friends and neighbours gazed around the kitchen, They eyed the teapot. The youngster spoke: "You'd think he'd be back in a few minutes." -- Patrick Joseph Kennedy, Quivvy, Belturbet, Co. Cavan, full-time sheep, suckler cow and forestry farmer, one of the founding members of the prolific Shannon-Erne writers groups.