The Extra Cup

My mother asked, her voice polite,

If Father wanted tea.

He said, "No, thank you," from the night

Of his old newspaper's decree.

He didn't look up, not one bit,

From headlines stark and gray.

But still, she didn't pause or quit,

And poured it anyway.

The cup filled up, a careful line,

A little more than asked.

And steam began its slow design,

A quiet, hazy task.

It settled there, beside his hand,

That cup he did refuse.

And I began to understand

The things they didn't choose.