Not glass

The empty glass, its purpose served, the see-through plastic
-not even glass-, mechanically seated on the top, untouched,
no shadows cast, no glimmer, its near future still, confines
the scarce vapors that remain inside, as once the memories
flowed from party cups to bottles back in childhood cellars
under a rustic wooden stair the miracle suddenly grasped
as the dark contours realized the very center of the sound
and to the stillness back, atop the table, not ever moist,
repeatedly cleansed in good manners, thoughtfully,
not ever anger, its purpose served, a faint recall
of a name -not even glass-, the thin needle of the clock,
without a sigh, stopped.

The End

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