Zebra Seeking Spoons

This morning,

the drawer opened quietly—

no glint of silver,

just the dull count of what I have left.

Twelve spoons,

though some are bent at the neck,

already too tired to lift.

The day is built on exchange—

coffee costs one,

shower takes two,

standing long enough to brush my hair

might demand a third.

Friends talk in hours,

in miles,

in checklists.

I speak in spoons—

an invisible currency

that buys me moments,

but never everything.

Some days I barter with myself:

skip the laundry,

keep enough to make dinner.

Other days the drawer is empty

before the sun climbs the window,

and I am left holding nothing,

yet still expected to spend.

Tonight,

I will count again,

line them up like fragile soldiers

and wonder—

how many will survive the dark,

how many will greet the morning?

And though the world

doesn’t see the economy I live in,

each spoon is a quiet testament:

I am still here,

still spending wisely,

still surviving the math of my own body.