table manners.

the glass slides towards the edge of the kitchen table
it was headed that way anyway.
ill-used and chipped in some places,
its porcelain sheen gone a long time ago
looks more jaded now than that shade of green.
a receptacle of dirty watered down dreams and stale juicy secrets
sold as its own set
tragically and sadly unique
yet as common as the common whore.

but the glass moves on its own.
not just one hand, but millions of taunting hands guide it.
as a lighthouse calls the boats to safety,
they usher it to its final escape.

just a bit further. a bit more. there.

the tiles look inviting from here.