Trace a sullen
Finger up-up and
Down that
Cup. You'll
Not wear
Near to the
Kiln dried
Slip,
Eroding
Frosted lacquers
Baked on
Tight, a
Line too
Stiff to
Cross. The
Coffee's hot,
Though you are
Not,
Lukewarm to
Thoughts that
Pass like
Cream, wiped
Up from
Underneath your
Place: a
Cookie
Colored
Saucer.