Enduring Object

Sept 27 2011

My favourite mug

is grey-blue glazed,

a shade I find tasteful, calming.

A heavy vessel

made from proletarian clay,

its thick blunt rim

sits gently on my lips.

Not fine bone china

that digs in

chips easily

totters on a matching saucer,

tinkling

like tea-time, and finger sandwiches.

A substantial handle

that accepts my fist

with a firm reassuring grip.

Like shaking hands

with a real man,

not a politician’s wet fish.

The generous cup

will hold enough

to keep the coffee hot,

topping it off

with strong black java

steaming up.

My favourite mug

does not say

“World’s Greatest” anything.

Should I spot it

on the lawn

at an early morning garage sale,

I’d forgo the thrill of the hunt

pony-up full price.

It would not do

in a crockery fight

between warring spouses.

Would not shatter against the wall

in a grand denouement,

but instead

would dent the sheetrock

fall to the floor

with an anti-climactic thud.

And we would both watch it

roll to a stop,

half hoping

it would have broken,

relieved

it did not.

An enduring object

you can depend upon.

And when she leaves

early next morning

my favourite mug will keep me warm,

steady

my trembling hands.