A China Cup
I saw it there and stopped for a while,
perched dainty at the top of the pile
of crockery, grubby, crazed and old
at the yard sale, waiting to be sold.
A teacup; white dots on baby blue;
the same my mother would sip her brew
of pale Earl Grey, in her Sunday best,
though only on days we had a guest;
usually her mother, my gran.
On matching plate, a strawberry flan
they ate, poured more tea, smoked cigarettes
talked about their woes and rising debts.
Other times, the cups were put away
in a glass cabinet, on display.
My sister and I would take them out
pour pretend tea from the teapot’s spout.
We always thought our mother didn’t know
she did; we found out a while ago.
“How much for the old blue cup,” I say
“ten cents,” he said, took it right away.”
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