Last Brew

Found the mug today,

under old bills, behind some dust.

That chipped one, where the glaze

was worn thin at the lip.

I filled it, I think,

with coffee, black, like always.

Set it on the counter, next to her plate.

She stirred sugar, slow, with a spoon.

Didn't say much, just that morning hum

of routines.

I washed it later, by hand.

Dried it, put it back on the hook.

Never knew, then.

Never thought to look, really look

at the way the light fell

on her hair as she left.

Just another Thursday.

Just another chipped mug.