White Strands

A hairline fracture on my favorite mug,

just a hairline, I said,

I can fix it, shrugged.

Pulled out the tube, the cheap white goo,

and squeezed a line, so thin,

like desperation bleeding through.

It promised strength, a solid hold,

a seam that time would not unfold,

but it stretched out, brittle, old.

The threads were white, and weak, and slow,

they clung and snapped, nowhere to go,

a plastic sorrow, row by row.

It dries now, pale and hard and stark,

a scar that leaves its lonely mark,

a failure lit up in the dark.