When you were made
as part of a set,

and like a fork
split from its knife,
inside you may arise
an identity threat–

you tend to forget
just who you are,
and don’t know
just what do you do,
when it’s,
for now,
only just you?

You can’t make things go
like they did at the outset. . .

It’s simply not clear,
in this space,
how to work,
or to play,

how to put on your shirt,
or to get the bed made,

though, just a while back,
you were sure,
as if it were absolute fact,
all such plans had been
worked out,
and impeccably laid. . .

Just like
the prickly fork
that held court
with that gleaming knife blade.

Missing your
trusty good partner
bright knife,
you stand all alone
in the glare of the light. . .

and get somewhat afraid.

While it may well be,
that your knife
is gone but a fortnight,
it really is vital,
as a worthy lone fork,
you lay claim to your life,

all the work that you did
to poke and slice up
those vittles,
compared to your
innate capactiy,
brought when you came
along with the stork,
just a little.

And, when you thus came,
you, like the world’s first fork,
excelled at a different game. .

In fact, maybe,
you looked nothing
like a fork with its tines,
in sneakers and shorts
or gowned, heeled, and dressed
to the nines,

And when
you dare again,
to break out and go forth,
you’ll reignite
your original fire and shine,

and, though your knife is apt
to rejoin you, in time,
you can still light your own way
to your unique true north.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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