Spoonfuls
This morning after reading about protein
I scoop my yoghurt into a measuring cup
instead of its bowl, pour nuts
from the cup of my hand into a jar lid
on the postal scale, even calculate
how many ounces of milk lighten
my coffee, then math with fractions
to tally it all
and at the table while I shovel
breakfast into my mouth I can’t resist
making a fist and flexing like a kid,
left hand on this old man’s right
bicep – am I feeding you enough? –
when I recall the therapist handing Dad
a big blue rubber strap and counting
while he stretches it taut twelve times,
fifteen, no doubt to insure
that next year when he turns 100
he will still be able to curl that spoon.
About the Author: Bill Griffin is a naturalist and retired family doctor who lives in rural North Carolina. His poetry has appeared widely and he has published seven collections including Snake Den Ridge, a Bestiary (March Street Press 2008), ecopoetry illustrated by Linda French Griffin. His most recent chapbook is How We All Fly from The Orchard Street Press (2024). Bill features Southern writers at his blog with Friday posts of poetry, microessays, and nature photography: http://GriffinPoetry.com
Image Credit: Holger Hansen “Spoon” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 