I found a filthy nonic pint glass

underneath the lilac bushes

across the street from a pub

that’s been shuttered for years

and as I picked it up, I realized

it had also been years since

I’d felt such a glass in my hand

or tilted its contents at my lip.


I brought it home, an old buddy

who’d fallen on hard times,

and I gave it a good washing,

dried it carefully and tenderly,

and filled it with Fuze ice tea,

wondering how it would take it.

To my delight again, it seemed

to be okay with it, even like it.


Tom Riordan lives in New Jersey. He’s a retired restaurant worker and teacher, and dreams about becoming pope for his next career.

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