Spoon in the Cabinet

Behind the glass, a silver gleam,

a tiny spoon, a half-forgotten dream.

It lay there, tucked beside the pills,

a dust-fine layer, how time stills.

For allergies, for aches, for dread,

the tiny bottle, nearly dead.

The cotton gone, the capsules few,

a quiet history of what I've been through.

A decade's worth of minor woes,

lined up in rows, as everyone knows.

The mirror shows a tired face,

this small spoon holds its lonely place.

Mixing powders, bitter brew,

each morning, something new to do.