They are the cold,
white,
smooth plastic pieces;
Dipped in Styrofoam bowls
filled with hot,
canned soup,
That come up
steaming
to my mouth
and stab
my 10 year old tongue
with little spines of white plastic –
superheated
and painfully useless.

They spoon rice,
and desperately cling to peas
as I sit at the lunch tables,
surrounded by children –
all of whom use the
same
silly
utensil
that was either a leaky spoon,
or a fork with short tines.
Stabbing at not-chicken
and powdered mashed potatoes –
leaving imprints of
spiky ovals
in the food that remained.
Untouchable.

And when the meal ends
and us children file away
into our little compartments
to learn sentence structures
and types of vegetables,
the cold,
white,
smooth plastic pieces
filled trashbags
and littered tables
and floors.
Sitting expectantly,
still waiting to be used.