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.
She knocked it off the bed stand last night,
Bitching that it shouldn’t have been there
In the first place.