The Good China

The flowers on the rim are fading to gray,

rubbed raw by a decade of dish soap.

There is a notch where the porcelain gave up,

a jagged white tooth missing from the edge.

I feel it every morning when I reach

for the toast—that sharp, unglazed bit

catching the skin of my thumb.

It’s the only one I want to use.

The others are too smooth,

too perfect to trust with a meal.