The glass is a glass until it falls apart.
Over the years it endures chips and scratches.
Keeps holding water or wine, juice or gin, in spite of its weakness.
Someone leaves it on the shelf, unwashed. Pushes it to the back of the cupboard unpolished.
Later yanking it out again: “Who put this here?”
Small children drink milk from it. Old men beer.
Chinked in celebration. Stacked in frustration. Scalded in hot water.
Sick people dissolve aspirins inside its rippled rim.
No one notices how fragile the glass is becoming
Until a final scratch on its weakest spot makes it shatter
And fall to the floor in a million scars.
No longer a glass.
A sea of shimmering stars.