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Horizontal Memories of Tea

Holland blue buried under

Sweaters, wrapped to protect

The breakable from the fragile.

 

My dime store trove, my tea set.

I sing the cheerful chatter

Of a five year old who spies

 

Her father on the couch

In sunlight. His big toe wiggles

From a sock hole.

 

Out the cups and saucers

For communion, four lemon wafers.

I can’t find the teapot top

 

Or his blue eyes that blur

To the applause of a game

Show. I offer a cookie.

 

My father stretches for another

Beer, pops the ring, pours secret

Shots   foamy   into our tea cups.

 

Published in Harpur Palate