You have been quiet except on the phone once
This year
Chili is the answer, is what we ate for dinner on my birthday, my twelfth year
There are uncles and there are acquaintances and then there is you, rushing spoon in hand
I was told the story countless times of a small you with a big spoon.
More cereal in a bite, in a bigger spoon, quick eating, morning fast morning, cereal inside, a rushing spoon, you said
To where you rush, I don’t know.
Know this: I ask where you came from and I get smaller answers when I hope for big ones. Small answers about big spoons.
Where you came from, I don’t know.
I ask where you are or where you want to be. Where you think you are and where you think I am. Smaller stories come, stories about big spoons.
Know this: there is one image of you that I remember and it is a clay image. I modeled it with my hands in art class. Years ago. A clay you, not small, is what I remember. And must never forget spoon rushing, rushing spoon, mornings are a leap never a destination.
I think you mixed cereals together. Know this: so do I.
How do you rush with no where to leave from?
A rushing spoon, maybe, can tell me more, about the way your face looked upside down in the warped reflection of your rushing spoon.

Can I ship you a rushing spoon.
(Is what I would have liked.)
I know that you need to eat, and that you mix cereal,
and that you wish your brothers liked their milk one percent.
(Is what I would have welcomed on the phone that day.)

Are you a hope of mine?
Still, no, until you tell me, to where did you rush.