When all the tea is gone I wonder who
will bring me more? I’m not as old as you
might think, and yet my legs don’t work as well
as when I made this cup, this cup, this frail
remaining cup that’s half a pair. I made
this cup. You thought I meant the tea? I made
that too. But now it’s of the cup I speak–
and of the tea–although you see how weak
I am. As weak as this remaining tea
in this remaining cup. You see? You see
how weak the tea, the cup, I am? Its mate
fell to the floor and shattered there. It’s late.
I only wondered who might bring me more
to drink. My tea. My cup. Before, before . . .

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