a broken plate, once
considered good china
by your mother,
an heirloom from Woolworth's,
a table centerpiece,
where the turkey would sit
once baked, porcelain
with don't microwave
on the back, hand wash,
has tumbled to the floor.
carefully you collect
the three angled
shards onto the table,
lining a clear ribbon of glue
along the ragged
edges, pressing them
together, but knowing
that the weight
wont hold, that's it
time, all things
and mothers being one,
will one day come apart.
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