The teacup had a chip on its sipping rim
It was broken, useless and sad
It was placed by the recycle bin pile
With things that once good were now bad.
It had memories of parties with dainty pastries
It remembered soft giggles of ladies with gloved hands
It dreaded its new journey to its new home
To a senseless patch of random stuff in a junkyard land.
Yet just before the teacup's journey began
a hand swooped it off the recycled pile
Brought it into a bedroom, set it on a small shelf on the wall
The teacup had been a special gift and the chip on the sipping rim
did not matter at all.