Depression Glass
by Ted Kooser
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.
"The Rollerblader"
I saw her coming from a long way off.
That singular side-to-side whispering movement
As she swung her arms and legs,
Brushing the morning aside, the morning's inertia
And the dew, which throughout the cool night had settled on the path like starlight.
An old man and woman, too, with their little dog were swept off into the grass,
Lifting her knees
And they glanced at her hot red face as she passed,
As if they had known her once, or all that fury.
by Ted Kooser
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.
"The Rollerblader"
I saw her coming from a long way off.
That singular side-to-side whispering movement
As she swung her arms and legs,
Brushing the morning aside, the morning's inertia
And the dew, which throughout the cool night had settled on the path like starlight.
An old man and woman, too, with their little dog were swept off into the grass,
Lifting her knees
And they glanced at her hot red face as she passed,
As if they had known her once, or all that fury.
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