A simple salad bowl

(A jigsaw of my heart on the kitchen floor)

Ribbed porcelain; a pyramid stack of thick cream skin.

Lined with that provoking layer of elegant sheen reserved for unfamiliar eyes.

Not moulded by a designer; but crafted by a name.

The brand often uttered.

Irrelevant.

It was in the way it hugged the rocket. So often idle—without whisper—its rainbow centrepiece would be admired.

Deflecting dialogue of blood, of a treasured circle.

Hand-picked; chosen before its time began.

Tuesday; Friday; Sunday. Part of the furniture.

A humble servant as its audience performed a deliberate orbit.

The end.

Without warning; not a momet to adjust.

The excess swooped like a thief and snatched the ordinary.

The impact; striking. The moment; still.

A fragment of each gathering—the fingerprints, the passover, the dips—scattered on an foreign surface.

No more.