Cups

Dead tired, unpacking 
on Sunday, I’m digging in 
cardboard boxes for cheap 
China cups for coffee.
 
I would rather drink 
coffee in a diner this morning —— 
two of us in a booth for six, 
a soundless, heavy rain falling

tirelessly past the window, soaking and 
chilling everything, but us inside.
Once, in my driveway, 
in a conversation caught 

between Is this a bad time? 
and I was just leaving, a local writer 
talking about local writers said 
something had to wake you up —— not you 

hypothetically, but you specifically, 
our dear one, our Page of Cups. “Fuck sake,” 
I said, “Let the boy sleep.”  
I thought if someone could, we all could. 

It’s early Sunday, so practicing 
what I preach, I don’t call. It will be each 
for herself today, to fill our cups 
where we will.