The last Czechoslovakian stemmed glass
a guilty reminder on the drainboard,
its mate shattered as I washed it.
How many times have I left them on the table
from the evening before.
And if you came over for morning coffee,
you'd notice they were a matched pair.
Now, I can't have anyone over for dinner
because they might bring wine.
For days I've been thinking
it would be so easy;
a slip of the hand
too close to the faucet head
would shatter those matched orbs
staring accusingly at me.
The thin fluted stem
and curved shards of glass
like wings of fragile birds
nestle, flightless in my hand.
8/22/1981
rev 82, 85
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