The Teacup

From a set of what used to be
Some of grandmother’s good china,
Handed down some decades ago,

Already partial, to furnish
Your first on-your-own apartment,
Having survived dozens of moves

Around the continent and years
Of storage in flimsy cardboard,
Unlike most of the long lost set,

The teacup, now one of a kind,
Fits your hand as you put it up
On a shelf of miscellanies.

Somewhere on the path to dying,
Moving on, you think of long life,
Your grandmother nearing ninety,

Widowed, felled by a sudden stroke,
Your last visit, still years to go,
A shadow with a gaping mouth

Silent in a hospital bed.
All those other dishes that broke,
And here’s this teacup, on its own.