the ice box

the jelly
and jams sit cold and squat
on the metal
shelf, side door
of the old ice box.
my grandmother in north reading
had a fridge like this.
she used to defrost
it with a butter knife,
standing on a small
stool,
towels on the floor
to catch the puddles of cold
water.
the fur of old ice
melted slowly.
she'd have the radio on.
big bands, mostly.
but I never saw her
shake a leg, or move a muscle
to the music.
she was too busy
with her short arms
in the box, chiseling
away on the thick
ice.
the jelly and jams,
remind me of her, how she
loved her toast and tea
in the morning,
and demanded we have manners.
telling
us to ask politely
and to get our elbows
off the table.