Keepsake Container

This old thermos, dropped a hundred times,

chipped paint near the rim where the silver gleams.

It carries coffee now, still hot, a dark dream

against the cold morning's climb.

A faint metallic tang when I pour,

a ghost of soup from years ago, maybe tea.

It holds the heat, steadily, for me,

the familiar weight, nothing more.

But it's held so many things warm,

through long shifts and early starts,

a silent witness to my parts

that needed shelter from the storm.

Just a container, but it stays,

through all the shifting, changing days.