Mugs — not matching — are being used

for not-drinking. They hold

keys and rings and pills and joys

that might need to be held

when the tenants are away.

Little homes of their own,

coves of ceramic and plastic and glass.

Fingers dip in and out,

placing, prodding, picking up.

Once in a while these mugs

end up empty. Joys used up

and rings worn and pills taken.

Of course, this is only temporary, but

the empty ones tend

to be the most beautiful

because you can see all

the way into them. Nothing

in the way of their insides, even if 

the thing in the way

was beautiful, too.