Kitchen
Down in the basement,
my parents' kitchen
had no pretensions,
no chance at glamour.
In mismatched cupboards
chipped china crowded
against tupperware tubs,
but we drank from Waterford crystal,
each glass handmade, beautiful,
a thing of art
that might have stood with pride
in a display cabinet,
but which we used each meal.
The first time I dropped a glass
I thought my father's anger
would break upon me
sharp as the glass shards
at my feet,
but instead his calmness calmed me,
telling me accidents happen
and he would rather I broke a glass
than that they went unused.
In that kitchen,
I ate the same breakfast
every school day,
a bacon and tomato sandwich
at the old formica table,
the same battered table
where all our friends
sat down for cups of tea
and the company of my mother;
the table at the center
of the room at the center
of my world.
(First published in The New Yinzer)