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Cups
One eye may rest on cupboards,
feeling out what better to contain me -
assorted bowls of pleasured pain;
a lavish, shining, beaming decor.
I'd rise with steam and spices void
of all that may annoy thy sense;
but upon consumption, reaching bottoms,
my depths may leave a dark brown taste.
Yet soon I may become another
to be poured into and enjoyed.
Clean and stoic, porcelain white,
a frenzied quiet upon the table.
Permit me to hold your body and bouquet
and sample each with a veteran's skill.
With fingers laced about the handle,
we'll toast among the clattered dish;
and in due time we may be left
to wash about the dirty basins,
but our throats will feel such satisfaction;
our bellies will grow full with candor.
