Vox Meditantis

You say I ought to use a coaster,
that these pale circles on the oak table
are ruining the finish, layer by patient layer,
leaving ghost-moons where my morning cup
has landed, again and again.

I know you’re right.

But there’s a sweetness in the setting down,
the slight wet kiss of ceramic on wood,
the way I watch you wince –
just barely, at the corner of your mouth –
and do not lift it, do not reach
for the cork square you’ve left
precisely three inches from my hand.

It’s not the table I’m protecting.
It’s this small, ridiculous sovereignty:
the right to leave my mark,
to be careless in a world that asks
for constant care, to let something beautiful
be beautifully ruined by the act
of simply being here, drinking tea,
refusing your reasonable request.

Each ring a tiny revolution.
Each morning, I plant my flag.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.