Pome

I have a jug,
whose great glass belly,
when I look at it,
seems about the size of my head.
And,
when filled with water,
twice as heavy.

My head cannot help but be threatened by this.
I fear if it ever came to bowling
or,
conkers,
I would not emerge victorious,
if at all.

I would lie there; on the concrete,
in a thousand shards,
while my glinting oppressor stared right through me,
simultaneously refracting,
shafts of sunlight,
that bounce too,
off my remains.

It seems unfair, to be so imperiled
by my own possession.
Inanimate, no less.
Yet its' swollen belly
impregnate; bloated and ripe with my destruction,
gazes coolly back,
swimming lazily in its
own sultry abyss.