Sticky Repair

The cheap mug split, a nasty crack,

and I, fool that I am, tried to stick it back.

Super glue, a tiny tube, a promise thin,

of holding broken bits where they had been.

But oh, the mess, the sticky smear,

my fingers fusing, caught with fear

it wouldn't hold, the handle askew,

a crooked smile, so false and new.

That sharp, chemical bite in the air,

a monument to what’s not there,

the perfect curve, the unbroken line.

It’s tacky now, a desperate sign

of trying to mend what’s meant to break.

My fingers fused, for goodness sake.