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Poem: Mismatched

There is a mismatched spoon
Among the other utensils
I hate it
A single brash outlier
Among the eight siblings
All equally matched

It seems to seek me out
Every time I reach blindly
To pull a spoon
It’s that one
Odd shape
Odd weight
It’s entire being feels off

Cycle after cycle 
Through the dishwasher
It gets returned
To it’s comfortable resting place
Among those who belong
To disrupt
Another pleasant eating experience

Each time I use it begrudgingly
I ask myself why
Why is it still here
The answer is obvious
You would notice if it was missing

Your happiness more important
Than my discomfort
So I’ll continue suppressing
My displeasure
At the bastard spoon

Copyright © 2021 TJS Sherman All rights reserved.


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