Sometimes a life seems to be
working so well. And then
something tears, and even
though mended, wearable,
is flawed, a scar in the cloth.

Then there’s the cup with
the stained crack. Your favorite.
Unique, a tender blue, hand-made on
a wheel that soon enough slowed to a finish.

Fired forty years ago, it still
works. Every day you pour water on
the teabag, careful to avoid
a scalding spill, adding honey.

As you drink, (a chip in the rounded
edge against your lip), you ponder
your fondness for it. Like you, it’s
a survivor, flawed but familiar.

The wheel is still there, gathering dust.