The Coffee Urn

I remember when the urn was just a pot on a burner. Now it’s a place where hands touch and names are remembered.

Yesterday, it sat cold for longer than it should have. No one noticed at first. Nothing always gets fixed.

But a hand came, quietly, with a new bag of beans. That’s the shape of what we do here.

Not to be right, but to catch the falling. Not for heaven or hell, but for each other.

That’s the good we know.