“One porcelain tea set!”
the auctioneer calls,
“looks like never used.”

“Looks?!” I think,
hearing in my mind
mother’s admonition:
“that’s only for special.”

but special never came.
instead I remember sitting
under the polished oak table

peering into the china cabinet,
daydreaming of ladyfingers,
tiny cucumber sandwiches,

maybe a strawberry or two
placed just so
on the dainty saucers,

wondering how tea would taste
sipped from the gold-rimmed cups,
their fancy curved handles held

between lace-gloved fingers.
“May I pour?”
“One lump or two?”
“Cream or lemon?”

surely all those magical pieces
held secrets within
the brightly flowered pattern,

the secret of when special
would be.

can I change my mind?

would that be allowed?

or maybe...

should I bid?

“Sold!” I hear before I can decide.

“special” would be
for
someone else
to find.