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.