They say in a prison
any gulag or road gang
a spoon is a man’s most valuable item
he can scoop and cut and drink with it

and after all a watery soup
of some kind of porridge
is what you might be grateful
to be eating.

In the solitary of living alone
albeit a short sentence
while my family are elsewhere
and I am here unfiltered

I look into the kitchen sink each morning
to see four or five spoons
and nothing else to be washed
for everything I needed was done right there.


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