The Spoon

A passenger reached between the seat and door,

pulled out a wooden spoon.

Asked why it was there. I swore

I didn't know. My room,

my car, my mystery—

I drive past it every day,

never asking. The history

of how a spoon got lodged in the gray

space between the seats. Worn smooth

from some kitchen, some other life,

some version of me I didn't prove

to be. They held it like a knife,

like evidence of my not knowing

my own things. I said something

stupid about stirring, about going

to cook, about something

I'd meant to do. But I haven't.

And now they know. The spoon

went back. It's there. I can't

escape it. It's my little rune

of not knowing myself, my car,

my reasons. I just drive.