under the sink they are,
lined up, the forgotten
carafes, skewers for a
barbeque, behind a jumble
of flowerpots, paintpots, coffee-
and-teapots, the held-onto-
just-in-case, the broken
vessel, chipped, who might
just do in a pinch, and
thankful, too, we'll be, not
having that easy habit of
discarding others, the broken,
the imperfect, the slightly
cracked,
the crazing on an old cup a
map of all those days gone by
long forgotten, along with
their random imperfections,
dwarfed by the blazing of the sun,
remembering how hot it was....