A half-drunk coffee mug, ringed with old stains
Abandoned and cold, it’s all that remains
Of the drinker, who forgot
A meeting upstairs.
A stack of rumpled and crumpled loose-leaf
Sheets covered in scrawls of praise and grief,
Collecting dust, just in case
They’re ever reclaimed.
A stack of post-its, highlighters and pens
Pencils too, short and definitely broken,
Ready to be shared out,
And never returned.
Whiteboard markers and glares that silence a room,
With jokes and stories to lift the morning gloom.
Voices that project and hands
That tell stories.