My body is like a lost spoon. Somewhere
at the back of the cutlery drawer
it has managed to lose itself in the clutter.
Is causing trouble again.
I can hear it cavorting with knives,
clattering against their blades.
Sweet-hearting them. One of their bone
or mother-of-pearl handles
bunts a comforting note in its bowl.
Now it's twanging the whisk,
weaving in and out of the egg-slice,
elbowing corncob holders. Such a flirt.
It's chattering up their knobbles.
Oh no, not the tin opener!
It's riding the wheels round and round
like being on that playground thing
next to the slide and the swings
I can see through my end ward window,
pushing along on one elegant silver limb.
And why not? We both know it's all bluff.
Let it have fun, practise being something
that can't be packed in a box.
Engraved with my copperplate name
it was there when I was christened
and has circled beside me since.
Soon enough it'll be asked
to stick out its tongue and say Ah
then filled with a measured dose
of something surprisingly weighty.
One day I'll bid it be still and it will -
perhaps something surprisingly sweet.