The Same Old Edge

Stacking the plates, scraping the scraps,

my thumb finds the familiar flaw.

That crescent chip, where the glaze perhaps

didn't hold, a small, rough gnaw

at the porcelain rim.

It's been years. I don't remember when

it happened, or how. Just that it's there,

like a stubborn habit. Again and again,

I reach for this one. The off-white wear

of daily use.

It could be tossed, replaced, no excuse

really, for keeping it. But it holds

the food, serves its purpose. The loose

edge, it just feels right. Like stories told

so often, they're part of you now.