The Cup

Wasn’t much of a cup really;

Heavy and thick, appearing to hold

Much more than it actually did.

Bought a couple of generations ago from

Some failing diner where small cups

Were the rule. Purchased by the case,

This was the lone survivor of its’ race

Plucked like some Mayan artifact

From the mud eddied against

A crumpled wall of a flood-ruined cabin.

 

This cup had come a long way.

It had held a child’s milk and cookie crumbs,

Tea and later, whiskey with ice.

It had held cowboy coffee fire-brewed thick

And bitter on dewy West Virginia mornings.

It had survived two years of college holding

Everything from broth to tequila

Then, coming full circle, my two kids

And their crumbs. It came through the divorce

Unscathed and, after the move, found itself

Beside me greeting every Florida sunrise.

Until now.

 

She knocked it off the bed stand last night,

Bitching that it shouldn’t have been there

In the first place.

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