Spoon

Sometimes when dad was away
we three girls would reward
our eating of the casserole
with frosting from a can.
We’d dip in turn,
a chorus of harmonic ahhhs
save a stray sour note plucked
by our tone deaf mother,
until she thought we’d had enough.
I denied my gluttony,
refusing to embrace can as meal,
attempting to kick my sugar jones.
I would pace from room to room,
my spoon erect,
stretching the space between scoops,
filling time with time,
another view of the hallway,
inspection of a painting hung there,
what’s that on the carpet?
reluctantly toe the kitchen threshold,
look at that trivet; is it new?
Then with each dip licked to a mound
and then to flat
and then to a smear,
my tongue caressing the concave bowl,
I’d return to my room
where Lulu sang “To Sir With Love”
umpteen times
and I would croon along with her
into the dirty spoon.