She has a stately, comely curviness. She's dependable.
At the bottom she's got no stem, just a steady solid base
where a stem could be. Less elegant than her cupboarded
cousins, flip-flops to their posh pumps, she has simplicity
and proletarian refinement. "I won't tumble,"
she says, "no matter how high I'm filled."
She knows what most my friends are apt to drink:
one a playful chardonnay, another a heady red,
like a sleek merlot or a velvet cabernet.
A broody malbec might make her drunk, might leave
on her bottom a kiss of blush only a
scrubbing with a long-necked brush will wipe away.
Yet she's stolid and accepting, and she'll not demur
if you set her on a corner table
and forget her there: she'll sit silently
and take in everything around her,
plotting neither revolution nor revenge,
but planning like a proud Victorian maiden
and dreaming of the day she gets replaced
by a slimmer, slighter champagne flute, only
to be placed on the top shelf, nestled unseen
in the dust beside the antique crystal
highball glass with the heavy Scottish brogue.
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