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