Chip
You treat yourself like an antique china cup
with a chip missing from the rim of it.
A trivial pursuit tooth missing from your shoulder.
A gap shows when you smile so you cover your mouth
all the time, except for when you are apologizing.
And I don’t understand how you don’t remember
children’s tea parties, Lord Mayor Teddy presiding,
when teacups didn’t have to hold water
to hold the whole charade together.
Don’t you remember sipping tea from the air?
Don’t you remember that broken things used to make you
wonder what else something could possibly be?
I made you a cup of tea. It tastes like bathroom tap water.
Drink it with your pinkie out. Tell me it has reminded you
of all the beautiful you still have left over.
