The Steady Chip

My thumb, it knows the place, the groove,

a small half-moon, where patterns prove

the edge is gone, ceramic torn,

a tiny crater, quietly worn.

This plate, it's mine, for every meal,

the jagged rim, the way it feels.

I’ve had it years, through quiet days,

and shouting nights, in blurry haze.

It’s seen my tears, my hurried bites,

survived the clatter, all the fights

with clumsy hands. It’s got a crack,

a hairline split, just in the back.

But still I use it, every time.

It tells a story, pays no dime

for fancy polish, smooth new gleam.

It holds its food, fulfills its dream

of being useful, broken true.

Like me, I guess, and maybe you.