Depression Glass

It seemed those rose-pink dishes 
she kept for special company 
were always cold, brought down 
from the shelf in jingling stacks, 
the plates like the panes of ice 
she broke from the water bucket 
winter mornings, the flaring cups 
like tulips that opened too early
and got bitten by frost. They chilled 
the coffee no matter how quickly 
you drank, while a heavy
everyday mug would have kept 
a splash hot for the better
part of a conversation. It was hard 
to hold up your end of the gossip 
with your coffee cold, but it was 
a special occasion, just the same, 
to sit at her kitchen table
and sip the bitter percolation
of the past week’s rumors from cups 
it had taken a year to collect 
at the grocery, with one piece free 
for each five pounds of flour.