Chipped China Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Don't hand to me,
Your chipped China.
You say slipped from 'your' hands,
To then hit the floor.
I don't buy it.
Your explanation!

I remember when you adored,
That same China.
To have it on display,
With it seen that way by anyone...
Coming through your front door.

And, at one time...
When you invited me to dinner,
All guests had to agree...
To wear rubber gloves to not leave,
Their fingerprints on silverware.
Or touch a plate from which they ate.

And now, today...
That impressive hospitality of yours,
Has begun to fade away.
Stacked and chipped your China now sits,
At the end of a buffet table.
With plastic forks and knives.
As if to disguise what you had valued.

With claims to make your precious China,
Had always been defective.
And you were suspicious of this.
To then say they were not worth,
The hefty price you paid.
For them not able to take the heat,
When you began them to microwave.

But...
Explain to me this,
Who would place expensive China...
They once praised.
Into a microwave?
Or have them slip to chip to hit the floor.
When they were so adored.
And to have had them exhibited.
To display as if in a close relationship,
No longer adored 'but' nearly ignored.

Who or what,
Has replaced your China.
To cause you such disgust.
Who or what,
Has changed your mind.
To now have your China chipped to pick up.
And at the end to have stacked to grab,
On a buffet line to even find the food...
Chilled and less appetizing.

Did your deliberately,
Chip...
Your China.
And why?
Did your deliberately,
Chip...
Your China.

Did your deliberately,
Chip...
Your China.
And why?
Did your deliberately,
Chip...
Your China.