Stainless approaching the ditch, not in
it, not in the road, that nowhere land of fried grass
and pancaked beer cans. Oh spoon,
who dropped you? Why? You are a good spoon,
great ice cream scooping size, perfect
for hearty Rice Krispies and Cheerios eaters,
too large for drugs, too small for serving size.
I will find a home for you.
It is what I do.
Road 438 is the one leading to the museum. I routinely patrol it in the golf cart and pick up trash—anything here forever, like plastic, aluminum, glass. I leave most paper items unless they are huge or are interesting fodder for future poems. Yesterday, I found this spoon. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it.