Ode To My Knives

Of all the toys in my kitchen so fair,

Eight bits of steel, honed well with care.

A flash of silver to dispatch a rind,

Serrated tips, a steak to find.

My love doth pare

Beyond compare.

A weighted handle calls me softly,

To ply my trade,with goals so lofty.

Twelve years are passed, with nary a day,

That I haven't loved them in some small way.

They nestle so happily in a block of oak,

They're calling me, I hear them, this is no joke!

A twist of fate, a deed unkind,

Out of my house, in a terrible bind.

My household goods, in a warehouse await,

Jacksonville, Florida, their ultimate fate.

Somewhere in those crates, made of stout wood,

My knives await, as good knives should.

My mom has a rack of tools that cut,

Noble, old, sharp enough, but what?

No comfortable handle, no fencing-foil steel

I shouldn't complain, but I miss their feel.

I'm sure I am spoiled, and so I whine,

"I miss you so dearly, you knives of mine."