ManicDDaily

Pink Teacup

The young don’t typically understand how the heart’s
a pink teacup;
they imagine something more bird, or if they consider
inner breakables, tend towards
the ceramic–a mug perhaps
with a jolly motto: “you don’t have to be crazy
to be me
but it helps,” or
“drink up me hearty–”

But as one ages, one feels the glass inside
grow thin, become bone china, have a harder time holding
the hot,
and the question one asks, increasingly,
is not whether the cup is half-full or half-
empty, but where the damn cup
went–

Chipped at
the lip, fine-lined by fissuring cracks–
Who, one wonders,
would ever cherish the pink teacup
the heart has become; one hopes for a person, who,
when they look into their belled
swallow, takes joy in
a certain aubish glow–
aube being the French word for dawn,
which, if you are like me, seems a fairly reliable test, since
any one saying aubish is not likely
to raise their pinkie with
any pretention but
to be generous with their socks,
at least, so the chest that holds
that old cup
hopes.

***********************

A rather odd, but I hope, entertaining draft poem for Grace’s prompt on With Real Toads to write about “pink.”  Actually, one of my personal favorites of my poems is a sestina called Pink that may be found here.   This is one of many poems and draft poems written each day this April 2015 National Poetry Month. 

 PS – this has been edited since first posting.