Doubting Thomas Peeping Toms

You've finally used
that oversized coffee mug
she gave you as a gag
on a shimmering Sunday morning
you'd rather face with lead.
It held the whole contents
of your stained French press.
Currently it's filled with soapy water
as you rinse the grinds that linger.
Without a thought you scrub the bottom
with a sponge that's overdue
passing over the forgotten message
scrawled in pink pen.
Your hands freeze in tandem
like two burglars shocked by sudden spotlights
as if a lack of motion
will resurrect that damaged word.
Now it could say "Yule"
"Yale", or "Y'all"
its tail end convoluted by redundant
points of exclamation
distinctly feminine, supremely unbelievable.
Her heart goes out to someone
nondescript thanks to your cleaning.
The message rings more true this way.
It's set to dry in a rack rife with tumblers.
You wonder if any other
will someday find this subtle missive
tap her foot, and ask for answers.
Details unimportant
you wager zero chips.

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