My Spoon

by Paul Martin Freeman (January 2026)

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What you seek is seeking you. —Rūmi (attr)
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My spoon I’ve had for fifty years,
For fifty years and more;
He’s been my friend through toil and tears,
Contented in his drawer.
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Not once he’s moaned, nor else complained,
Nor been a cause of stress;
Not made demands, nor Lord profaned,
Although the drawer’s a mess.
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I used to try to find a wife
As perfect as my spoon.
I fancied then I’d sail though life
From every woe immune.
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No matter any scorns or whips,
I’d never know depression.
No anguish would my joy eclipse
With heart in husband heaven.
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I’d cultivate an attitude,
Unfearful of defeat;
And all my triumphs in gratitude
I’d lay beneath her feet.
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Alas, no girl I ever met
Could with my spoon compare,
For screams would spoil our love’s duet,
And all to do with hair.
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And so begins my tale of woe
From best-forgotten days,
How Juliet dumped her Romeo
For dull and lifeless praise.
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No matter how I tried to please,
I’d fail that vital trial,
As never could her needs appease
On paeans for noddle pile.
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I’d write it odes and epic verses;
I’d warble it an aria,
But kindly folk would hear her curses
As far as Candelaria.
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A tune I’d croon so tenderly
It might seduce a cow;
Though some with tears remember me,
No quarter she’d allow.
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And though at night I’d sing its glory,
And even chant a prayer,
Now snoring through this dismal story,
The owner wouldn’t care.
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Regardless how I persevered,
The end was just the same:
That awful teary bit I feared
When on my knees in shame.
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I’d stand below her balcony
And try a last appeal,
But found no thrilling alchemy
Which might my doom repeal.
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No help was either Bard or sonnet;
Quite useless, too, the stars,
With now my panegyrics on it
Drowned out by hooting cars.
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But as a man should always know
When by the Fates he’s licked,
So then it was, as now I’ll show,
Inside me something clicked.
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For of the truths which might accrue
As trials our minds expand
Is What you seek is seeking you,
While often close at hand.
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Thus one day so it was I saw
I had what I required:
That spoon of mine there in his drawer
In birthday suit attired.
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I grasped in him was all I needed
To live a happy life.
With him I’d sail through unimpeded,
Despite no perfect wife.
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In quiet content I’d pass the time,
Enjoying his polished charm;
At peace at home with all the grime
And hearing safe from harm.
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No pair of star-crossed lovers, we;
Together, rich or poor;
As one in perfect harmony:
A twosome evermore.
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At last my soulmate thus I’d find
Through whom I’d get my mettle,
To whom till then had I been blind
Though inches from my kettle.
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Hence down the years he’s been my friend,
Attractively there sprawled;
Impossible to (h)e’er offend,
As not just dumb but bald!
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