By Shem Onderi
Full now, empty later,
you serve warm, hot, or cold—
always to satisfy the consumer.
You feel the heat
yet never taste the delicacy.
You complain not,
silent, holding only for a while.
Dirty after use, smelly before wash,
yet clean and inviting after a rinse.
Some flat, others potbellied,
shaped to hold as size demands.
The user decides
what to serve, how much to take.
Made of glass, or of ceramic—
too fragile to wander with carelessly.
Glass plates tremble in young or aged hands,
sometimes clattering against their own kind.
You prefer a quiet life, alone.
Potbellied, you promise more—
perhaps to please a gluttonous stomach.
With age, your shine recedes,
your colors fade,
your body leaks.
Nutrient-rich soups slip away,
and the owner discards you.
No mending will suffice,
for no tear can truly be repaired.
Unwashed, unwanted,
you lie in the wastebin,
left to decompose.
A recycler may find you,
mixing you with other castoffs.
Still, your faithfulness is unmatched—
one serving after another,
holding variety day after day,
season after season.