Early in this blog I wrote a poem I called "Poor Spoon." It was a phrase about which I'd written something a few weeks earlier, but I didn't have the draft at hand.
I just found the earlier "Poor Spoon." It's marked "March 10, 2008, 3:46 a.m."
I pick you up from the corner
where you have fallen,
turn you over to check the mark
on your back.
How often I have searched for your kin
in the great cracked plastic bin
lifted it and spilled the clatter
of 10/18 and tin, now and again
something fishy-golden that is silver
Lady Charming is long gone,
bypassed by style after style, the migration
crowded out by stamped tools with uncertain edges.
You could bleed from such a spoon.
You all smell of blood,
and you bleed gray,
and I don't know the test of your mettle.
I only want your handful of flowers
and your serene, smooth glow
delivering my soup.
There's a spoon in a corner in this one, but that's about it for similarities. This one is pretty true to personal experience, and in its unforcedness--except at the end, with the soup--I prefer it to the one I wrote for the blog, though I suspect most people would disagree.
I remember having this one in my head, getting out of bed, walking to my home office, fumbling for light and scrap paper, scribbling it down--I ran out of room at the end--and going back to bed, all in a very short time, a few minutes.
You know what I like about this one? The sound, the shape. I hear the spoon in this poem, and I see the spoon in the sound in this poem. (I don't think I truly have synesthesia, but I do tend that way.)