Guest Mug

That late in the day

and the print of the lip

is wearing up, ridges

where words sometimes

light like birds

or sometimes teeter,

quarried rocks

whose ultimate fate is to be

propped over

someones head like

a bedboard.  I'm after

looking for

that moment of day

when the morning's worn

off or through

and the daub of solid soft

rolled up going

dressed to the world

and is left forgotten

somewhere: coffee

cup I'm talking 

here, the one that's stood up

to her losing

her grib and flipping

rim over rim to come

to a stop somewhat tauntingly

just out of easy

reach and scorning

discreet the pink

print she'll thumb

and rub until

some comes clean

and some gets under

the glaze and privately

when she's turned

to other things 

a man will put his mouth

there and close

his eyes against the steam

and let all that's hot

and all that's not

be swallowed

and some 

when she turns back 

to look

glistens and he lets it

on his lip

until in time 

it dries there

or is taken up

by his tongue

like a retrieved

and unspoken

and unnessary word.