The worn edge

Washing the bowl, my thumb found it.

That chip, just above the rim.

A small crescent, where it hit the sink

last year. Or maybe the year before.

It's always there, a familiar lack.

Still use it for cereal, every day.

It fits my hand, feels right.

Some things you just keep, despite

the flaws, the little breaks.

It's just a plate. But it holds

what it needs to, even now.