How perfectly its crescent
fits my lip, my tongue
a shining sword delivering
Cheerios in the morning
or chicken noodle at noon.

Each slender spoon a spine
etched with vertebrae
in circular scrollings—
its edges smoothed
like the side of a nickel.

One of a snuggled row
in their third of the drawer
whose clinking retrieval
always signaled snack:
leftover goulash or ice cream

straight from the carton.
The closest we ever got
to setting the table:
the bachelor's bowl,
the spoon's spoon.