I have an old bowl
I use it still
No reason to
Throw it
Away
It holds water
Or post , toasties
Whatever the
Meal
I steep my tea
In the vessel
Just to have room
For the leaves
To breathe
I never share
Out of it
After all ,,
It's mine
I keep it
Clean
Well, its good enough for me
A pitcher has a handle
A mug has depth
a bowl relies on my
Hands to maintain a grip
I put my hands together
And raise the rim to my lips
A motion much like praying
Especially when I  say grace
When I am gone
off
This mortal plane
And all my possessions
Are scattered to the wind
Whoever in their right mind
Would use my bowl
Again?