I once met a young monk,
He said, “There is no spoon.”
I told him, “Use a fork.”
“It has tines, and will sift through.”

I told him, “Fingers work.”
He laughed, “Not deft enough.”
I asked for elaboration,
He explained, “You lose too much.”

“Pour it in your mouth, then.”
He thought, “This I can not do.”
When I asked him to explain,
He told me, “Too much to consume.”

I threw my hands in the air
How are all solutions flawed?
“I have no answer for you, then.”
He said, “You are not God.”

Photo by Nicolas Häns on Unsplash

Free verse poem. I was out of spoons. I conjured a poem.

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