Behold the spoon
Whose limbless form is tribute to our own –
Its usefulness variant upon its steely brain
Or silver, if it pleases you
To have something so useless as to lie in a box
Of crushed velveteen
No sustenance in its wide lips
Except at Christmas.
No, behold the humble spoon
Proud, erect as a solider
Whose duty is to vitalise
From once a wee child
To the grizzled infirm
With soup and gourds and gruel
Erstwhile guarding the tributaries forming
On one’s chin.
The spoon is a true chameleon:
The poor man’s castanets
Retired to lay side by side,
Knowledge of the other’s round form
Intimate and blunt
It will gouge your heart out with the bluntest blade
And serve it up so beguiling
For someone else to feed on
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