9 poems dugger - Trish Dugger

The Tea Party
He loved his tea at three or so.
I’d heat the dented kettle, pour
a stream of steaming water on
a tea bag in his Spode cup,
but that day I poured
steaming water on loose tea
in a new teapot and let It steep
while my old man put down
his rake and cleaned up,
smiled and winked at me.
I’d spotted the white china teapot
in a thrift shop of St. Barnabas.
Rich parishioners’ castoffs put
my prized chipped Spode
to shame. The teapot without
a defect for two bucks gleamed
like an icicle in moonlight.
I stopped at an A & P
on my way home, picked up
a package of Fig Newtons,
and I had the makings of
a tea party for my old man and me
I still have the white china teapot
high on a shelf I can hardly reach.