Once the travel mug tired of journeying at last
and couldn’t even stand to take the paved road home,
Dave lost the dear friend in all its specificities.
But stomp its foot and huff its breath all it wants,
I don’t think that it will stay stagnant long.
Things roll, people shove, and you never have much say
in where you end up, which is not all bad, because
wasn’t the travel mug made to sojourn?
And aren’t our crimes against ourselves along with the rest,
until our selves break or break out into light?
Alphabet Ravine 
An intriguing concept
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Thank you! 🙂
My father-in-law might have lost his travel mug in another state and had a hard time finding a replacement for it…
😉
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Love your poem, Lydia Rae. This one is darned near impossible to riff…
Are the secrets of the sources not in the dwell?
Is not treasure found at the bottom of the well?
With or without virtues to extol,
downhill is the way we all roll;
at best or at least, as far as I am going to tell.
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I like your riff! I really like the structure.
Thank you! Glad you liked it.
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Good poem. Thanks for stopping by my blog and following. 🙂 — Suzanne
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Thank you! All the best!
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