• Cheryl

Mug

Updated: Mar 24

An Object Poem; Edited 03/24/2022


handle, bottom, basin.

turning wheels, beads of sweat.

stained hands mold the hump of clay.

rustic beauty. craftsmanship.

imperfect. imprinted. incomparable

artist, artisan, potter.


whatever the shape, my fingers make do

round, square, smooth, or curved

they curl ‘round your protective walls

enclosing your contents in my palms.

cozy. comfort. close.

5 a.m. alarms buzz. morning dawn glints, eyes squint

slowly, sleepy hands wrap around, deep breath in. bless that first sip on my tongue. deep breath out.

the rush begins.


caffeinate. energize. awake. alert.

answer calls, write papers, read emails,

*yawn* 4’o’clock. midday pick-me-up.

something special.

blends of cardamom, black tea, clove.

shot of espresso.

dirty chai.

local barista, messy bun and septum pierced,

draping foam atop the rim in

fluid motion. dust of cinnamon.

soft buzz of customers. heartwarming moment away from the office. exotic.

night sinks in. end of day.

cozy clothes. doors locked. quiet. still.

this one grey, small, simple

etched-in trimmings at its base.

thrift store, picked out just for me, by me. small chip in the handle. well-worn, much-loved.


something soothing

lavender and passionflower relaxing, rejuvenating, tranquil. water boils, kettle steaming, cloth bag steeping, tie the string around the handle for safekeeping.

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