By Megan Willome

How long can this coffee cup last?
The one with the long crack, from lip to toe?
The one I rely on every single morning
for just the right proportion of coffee to milk?
I bought it, cheap, at a truck stop, in southern Colorado
years ago. It has everything I love on its painted face:
stars, pine trees, a bear roasting marshmallows.
I stick it in the dishwasher every day, but it never
gets clean. It has never failed me, ’til now.
Now I’m trying to make it last, against all odds.
Sip quick before the drips flood the countertop,
before it can no longer hold what I hold dear.
Both of you. Stop fighting. Get in the car.
Just past Oklahoma, there’s a truck stop
with a long row of uncracked cups.

This Poem Features In: