We are born in litters of hundreds,
taken home in loving
manicured hands.
These polish-tipped mothers
situate us together

criss-cross applesauce.

We are just like our mothers,
different colors, shapes,
and sizes.

We are strong like them–
rarely breaking, always bending.
Sometimes we are lost, and
like them we spend time alone.

We are always nearby
should they need us–
in the bottom of a bag,
purse, or pocket
we wait.

Prompt: pick an inanimate object and write a poem about it.