Polite Storage

It’s a ceramic bowl with scalloped edges,

heavy as a tombstone and twice as cold.

My aunt said it was 'regal' and 'rare,'

a piece of fine art to have and to hold.

It has never touched an apple or a pear.

It sits on the highest shelf in the back,

collecting a fine, gray velvet of dust

in every ornate, unnecessary crack.

I’m packing the boxes for the move,

weighing the guilt against the floor space.

It feels like a crime to throw it away,

but I can’t stand to look at its face.