So I looked at my teaspoon. And my teaspoon looked at me. And I said, “How’s things?” And really. I wish I hadn’t asked.
The Teaspoon’s Lament
I sit here, used, and caked in grime,
And watch, as all the forks and knives
Dive in the sink for wash-up time –
How pampered are their shiny lives!
I hear the kettle boil with dread –
Could it be coffee? Is it tea?
It’s coffee. Yes, in goes my head…
I’m whirled round nauseatingly.
I gulp for air, but no! There’s more!
A teabag’s heading for a cup!
Here comes the dunking I abhor…
In out, in out, down up, down up!
You British! Once, reserved and hushed,
You made your tea with reverence!
And now, these teabags! Crushed and flushed
With bullying malevolence.
A rinse! What glory now awaits?
Oh curses. It’s a boiled egg.
Bang bang, crack crack – this bit I hate-
Oh, don’t mind me! it’s just my head!
But things get worse – as, come desert,
I’m grabbed again. Oh no, please not..
A small boy’s hand, all caked with dirt.
I shovel yoghurt through the snot.
My grandma was a christening spoon!
Respected! Hanging in a frame!
But I’m a puppet! Slave! Buffoon!
I shudder for the family name.
So use me! Hurt me! Boil my brain!
Don’t cry for me! I’m dead inside!
Through all this strife, I shall remain…
Steely, cold and dignified.
© Nina Parmenter 2018