What Breaks

The mug was heavy in my hands,

and for three weeks I'd made my stand—

the handle glued, the seam rebound,

I'd tested it on solid ground.

This morning when I reached to drink

I felt it shift, I felt it link

the way a break will sometimes show

that glue was just a temporary show.

The adhesive, white and brittle, gone—

I'd been so sure, I'd held it long,

I'd waited for the bonding cure,

believed that I could make it sure.

But there's the gap, the opening wide,

the two pieces set aside,

the failure written in the space

between the handle and the base.

I set it down. I don't pick it up.

There's coffee growing cold inside the cup,

and all my careful work undone

before the morning light was gone.

Some things won't stay the way you need.

Some things will break, will break your creed

that patience and precision matter—

they don't. The mug still breaks. It shatters.