This poem isn’t going to set the world on fire; if it does, I’d be surprised and shocked, and profoundly concerned for people’s taste in poetry.  

I wrote this for two reasons: 1) It’s NaNoWriMo, and I’m going a bit loopy with it; 2) I’ve pilfered my husband’s souvenir mug from Canada, because sometimes – dammit – I want to remember my 20s and drinking endless mugs of coffee in Phil’s Diner and Mel’s Diner, and other such greasy spoons around my old stomping grounds.  

Enjoy a little flash of nostalgia, and my own weird sense of literature.


 Ode to a Coffee Mug

Thick porcelain urn,

Worshipped by the lips of many

Who have supped from your lip,

Drinking deep the elixir of life.


Uncounted hands have been

Warmed by your curvaceous sides,

Handle ignored,

but only on winter’s mornings.


With the problems of society

are you well-acquainted,

Listening in to the solutions

As friends fix the world.


Deep magic resides within you,

For you are bottomless;

With merely a nod and wink,

And full you are again.