Hurry, tesselate the broken pieces!
Coffee cups, your mother’s collection.
She left them to you before she died.
“Some fine China,” you say.
Your feet shift atop the painted plate massacre.
You are worried that you will slip
on you backside
and fall into a memory of her.
She was painstakingly tidy.
You, of course, are not.
But you regret what you did now that you stare
down at it.
What would she have said?
You wished a thousand times as a child.
Now in all its glory, still withholding,
the feeling of victory.
Perhaps this is her crowning achievement.
To stare down from on high, whilst you
feel her cold glare;
Still, you muse, despite all the mess,
it is rather nice to have brewed a pot
and not have a single, ornate fussing
to put it in.