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.
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