Indian Giver
Years ago, in Budapest,
I bought ceramic mugs
As presents for my son and wife;
They thanked me and gave hugs.
The pottery was quite unique;
I bought some for myself,
Which sits there in my kitchen
On a front-and-center shelf.
I couldn’t carry too much home
But always did regret
I didn’t buy myself a mug
(Or two, to make a set).
Yet since that time, my son has bought
Ceramics of his own.
His coffee cup collection
Has considerably grown.
The gift mugs are no longer used;
They’re stored way out of sight.
I knew if they were on display,
They’d bring me great delight.
Could I possibly reclaim them?
It’s a practice that’s taboo
(Which I’m well-aware my title,
Very not P.C., is, too).
But my son was very gracious –
Wrapped them so they wouldn’t break
And they’re hanging in my kitchen now,
Correcting my mistake.
I won’t do this again
Though I am glad I had the nerve
To speak up, for these two mugs
Bring out my smiles on reserve.
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