Each gentle squeeze reminds me, nothing I hold is mine.

I arrive already rumpled by events, wearing the worlds hurry in little black coats. I fold my troubles before breakfast, then lose pieces to coffee, windows, and fish. By evening I know less than I did at dawn, though every page insists otherwise.

I’m woven by hand with a handle to hold, I carry your lunch or your groceries home.

In a room where nature calls, a pause in life, a moment stalls. A porcelain throne, oh so neat, where relief and privacy meet.

Raise me if your words are sharp. Drop me when they hit their mark.