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.