Prattling five foot Cavaluccis’ and Camillos’

cheek tweaking fingers came on Sunday -

thick, bent and hard pinching the handles

of grandma’s hand-painted teacups

- amputated of their glass cased pedestal

for 2 o’clock dessert-

They sipped, and nail tips brushed their cracked lips,

rose red chipped polish glossed over cuticles like plastic

that commare smiles and invites you to sit on…

 

The droning exchange but affixations and banter

drooping copiously over silver trays of pizzelles and biscotti –

eager, meager morsels posed as an apron donned, pushy taste tester’s

superfluous “stick your nose in and sniff up what she’s cooking” invitation

to access and assess all our directions and selections

 

Punches of stout lady accents and nodding tones

fused and poured over the cup in my grasp,

dripped onto the sticky linoleum

into infectious puddles.

But still failed to puncture

my stagnant stare

and I remained their idle trophy –

absorbing the heinous stench

of cultured nonsense.