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.