Ode To My Spoons
By Kellizaber
They sit there on the table,
In a cup all together,
Squished by the manifolds
Of others just like them,
Reflecting the sky outside.
Their funny form of a
Blossoming orchid.
My spoons are many.
Some plastic, some metal,
Some half fork on the
Father’s side.
The plastic ones white,
Pure as fresh snowfall.
The metal ones shining,
Full of tarnish stains.
The Spork’s tortured
By their father’s actions.
But they aid me always
Whether I’m digging into sand
Or digging into Jell-O.
They are in numbers,
Not only two or three.
My spoons wait for me.
They know I will come.
One after another I pluck
Them from Death,
From the death of the garbage can.
I take one a day,
Sometimes two or three
If my purse is empty.
And my spoons are happy.
They smile with their
Round edges and
Long noses,
Only one thought in
Their plastic selves.
I’m glad I’m not a fork!
