Phantom Cutlery

He’s eating in his sleep tonight.
His fragile fingers gripping ’round
Some phantom spoon he doesn’t like.
He tests it as he often does:
A twist to left, a twist to right,
To check the weight against his wrist.
The writer’s cramp from forty years
Of blackboard writing with a chalk
Has left his wrists too shaky now.
Without the proper weight, he spills
The spoonful he can barely lift.

He’s trying different cutlery,
And nothing seems to do the trick.
He makes his hand a trowel now –
The one he taught me how to make
So many many years ago,
So I could eat without his help.
I hold his trowel hand tonight,
And every night of troubled sleep,
Until again he’s fit to grip
The stainless heavy spoons he likes.

%d bloggers like this: