The old spoon gave a groan
as I stuck him in froth;
his original luster
had long since worn off.
He complained of the splinters
that riddled his spine,
but despite his spoon crooning
still did the job fine.

I asked him, “Hey, Spoon,
how come you’ve stayed so loyal?”
and he broke clean in two
as the pot reached a boil.

I still held both pieces
and stood there astounded;
this spoon had grown old
with my fingers around it.
I ran to my toolbox
and glued up the fissure,
and while the glue dried
I stirred pasta with scissors.

The glue looked alright
but the truth made me panic,
for all food he now stirred
would be carcinogenic.

So he now sits and watches
from his place on the wall,
and I have fun re-gluing
whenever he falls.