The crumpled old newspapers opened reluctantly:
why go over those troubles again? And the cup
that they’d cradled was cold as a handful of snow
after years in that unheated attic. What seemed
weightless had once held a whole neighborhood,
forgotten one sip at a time, not even leaving the stain
of the gossip. Or perhaps it had grown ever lighter
by the weight of each hand that had set it down
empty, each time more empty than the time before,
marked by the inimitable chime of a fine china cup
placed back in its saucer, the same note as the bell
in an elevator as it slowly ascends floor to floor,
carrying a few fading voices up into an absence.