Where do we keep the potters?

There is a pot perched on my TV.

I had just gotten a shipment of poets' bones
and was tying words to them
(careful work that was),
when in southern France,
five feet below the loam,
a cave dweller's pot was found.
Had they dug to six I wondered?

Tended by soft murmurs of adoration,
the spade-like fingers of the diggers
put gently down the lumpish thing beneath my pot.
I could see them in ascendance of creation.

The cave potter has gone to clay,
but I'll wager that potter #47 is still among us.