You sit up there in your Sunday Best
Like a family ready to venture to Church
Like a bunch of old relations
At my front door
Yet obliged to welcome in.
Your rims are the faded gold of a weak winter sunset
You wear dust like well-fitted hair pieces
And only bathe when Great Aunts call
Dreading their kisses from crumpled lips
Which are pursed in disapproval at your faded dress -
And as your teapot dribbles
Like an old, incontinent Uncle,
They tut like scornful peacocks
That you were handed down to me after all.