I see myself as a spoon. Cocked on the half shell. A little dollop of something sweet in my concave brightness. A couple bent prongs at my head. A sharp knife below my belt. Two very curvaceous beauties full of heady stuff at my elbows. A plate of vices with a sprig of thyme. A napkin in case I shed tears. A candlestick to shove up my enemy’s orifice. A little prawn cocktail to dance with when the butler’s having his way with the Chinese figurines. A pair of nimble fingers when I need to fondle. A lap to fall into and never get used again. Used so ungratefully by mouths. So many mouths all wanting me. I’m up against palate after palate. And the tongues! oh, the tongues. And then there’s always a bastard who comes in and clears the table. Puts me in a drawer will all the other spoons. And I find out I’m not different. I’m like all the rest. And it’s then I wish I was a runcible.