I spied you in a junk shop
in a little country town,
outside on a trestle table,
among many tables piled up with rusted metal
you sat, a rain-smudged beacon of a long-ago time
and I thought how strange to see you there
after all these years.
And I remembered how you once sat
(or one like you)
on a small round wooden table in the kitchen
with your siblings –
the dark brown saucers,
the matching side dishes.
Like you they were speckled cream ceramic
with bold childish blossoms
in burnt orange, tan and beige.
As I stood there in the junk yard,
brushing the veil of dirt from your flowered face,
I wondered who could ever have chosen you
or found you beautiful?
And I remembered how when we were small,
we sat around the table,
that little kitchen table
set with ugly earthenware-
and ate
and talked
and laughed
and learned
and loved.
I remembered
and then you were
a bright thing
there among the rusted things,
and so I bought you for one dollar
from the junk shop,
in a little country town.
And went home and made a cup of tea.
;g