it’s unobtainable, it’s out of reach,
untouchable, from where i stand,
i’m on my tiptoes; fingers spread; it
spins around again just when i thought i
had it in my hand, and
each time i try; i’d have to climb to get it
down from just so very high —

why do they put the mug i like
up on the top shelf every time?

poetry prompt:
‘the untouchable: something that
will always be out of reach’
2020