Crate Table

The spare room's empty.

My coffee mug,

steaming,

needs a place to land.

I grabbed the old milk crate,

plastic, dark blue,

upside down.

The criss-cross pattern

a makeshift grid,

dust motes dancing

in the sliver of light

from the window.

It still smelled

a little like damp basement,

a little like old rain.

My ceramic mug,

delicate rim,

sat precariously

on the rough surface.

It held.

A small, temporary defiance

against the bare walls,

the waiting.