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.