I miss you.
Packed away in some dusty box.
Waiting, ever expectant and accommodating.
The spatulas I'm forced to use are nothing.
Flimsy plastic or chunky wood,
like blocks and straws,
Nothing to your long handled metallic grace.
Your thin rigidity, ever-so slightly pliant.
Flipping omelettes is a messy business
without the surety of your lines.
O' Spatula,
I took your useful dexterity for granted.
Fly back to my loving grip soon
that I may break my fast with forgotten
Alacrity.
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