Creditable: Not a Mug’s Game

As the black coffee mug
Has broken up,
Demonstrating its impermanence,
I’ve switched to another,

But I’ve always
Used this one for tea,
And so I keep thinking
It contains tea.

How odd to keep expecting tea
And tasting coffee;
From whence did this idea arise,
And why can’t I abandon it?

Perhaps this is merely
A form of grasping;
I certainly feel
Some irritation or aversion here.

It seems
Somewhat ridiculous,
For isn’t a mug
Just a mug?

And the alternate one’s better too,
As it more easily holds
The desired volume of water,
Thus reducing the risk of spills;

But still,
I miss the old one,
And surely this is
A kind of stickiness,

Only a little suffering,
But it all adds up,
Yet also a good opportunity
To apply a kindly nonjudgmental attitude
To the study of clinging.

Credible: A Simple Matter

I poured hot water
Into the coffee mug,
And it cracked in two!

The first I knew
Was coffee leaking
All over the countertop,
And my fingers flew
To move the cup into the sink.

Oh, my beautiful cup,
The one I received
For some work well done,
Shall I save it?

I threw it out at once
Then decided to retrieve it,
And in the process
Slashed my thumb
On the sharp edges;

Now it lies
Atop the toaster oven
In two pieces,
And I cannot decide what to do with it.

This gift of accomplishment
Is related to
A current goal,
And so I asked,
‘What does this mean?’

Is it a bad sign,
A good omen,
A simple case of
Poor quality and frequent use,
Or even merely a matter of,
Sometimes a broken cup
Is just a broken cup?

Crease: Bloodstream in the Word Stream

There’s always
So much to say,
But how foolish to try
With one’s mouth full
Of toasted cheese, tomato,
Cucumber, and sweet red pepper
Sandwich!

Better to pay attention,
For if I had been,
I probably would not
Have stabbed the left knuckle
Of my middle finger with the knife
When I was cutting
The plastic off the English cucumber.

I never expected
Such a continuous stream of blood;
Luckily, the fruit flies
That have been
So busily invading
My building lately
Aren’t bloodsuckers.

Once again, it’s time for bed,
The knife is washed and stowed,
The bread and vegetables refrigerated;
All is quiet on the kitchen front,
Except for the compressor
Kicking over now and then,
On this very humid night.

Mindfully, I notice what’s about,
In between seeing and hearing
The tapping of the keys
Beneath my fingers,
Occasionally checking on
The bloody knuckle,
To ensure it’s going to settle,
But then, ‘oh wait, I forgot to eat some fruit!’