72 short lines about shame

In the matter
of the honey-dripper
I am ashamed,
not for the scale

of my ignorance,
but the ignoring of it.
They are commonplace
to look at, a cypher,

that peeled bud
or globe, with slices
beveled out
around the circle.

Obviously, even to me,
one is meant to dig into
the honey’s pot,
twirl it about some,

and then transfer quickly
to any waiting beverage.
It is an old tool
in looks as well

as history, but despite
its presence in every
kitchen since Nanny
I have never used it.

There is no blade,
no wire, no lever,
no cantilever,
no mechanism

to reccomend it
to a modern boy.
In my tea at night,
and all day also,

I use honey.
Wildflower usually,
tupelo for best.
Two teaspoons full.

I have had spoons
and heated spoons too,
but to no good effect.
I had a depressing machine.

You push down to depress,
tiring but slow.
There have been other gadgets,
glass and metal

and some made of plastic.
None were successful
solutions, but all
rendered fingers sticky.

I have had thoughts
of an engineered answer,
that better mousetrap,
but I was left

no other option
in one evening’s drawer.
And the shame flows
because it worked perfectly

and I never knew
or thought to think
that surely it must
with so much prior use.

It doesn’t ruin my tea
or make it bitter, for
tea is humble,
the only change

is that in this matter,
at least, I am also.
Fifty years of not
knowing any better

and not knowing
I never knew.
What else must
there surely be?