Zebra Seeking Spoons

On good days,

the spoons line up like soldiers,

bright metal in the morning light.

I spend them freely—

one to rise without hesitation,

one to dress without wincing,

another to walk outside

and feel the air as something kind.

There are enough left

for laughter that stretches into the evening,

for sitting still without guilt,

for the simple grace of peace.

On bad days,

the spoons are scarce,

thin and bent before I even begin.

I clutch one just to breathe,

another to turn myself upright.

Dressing is a negotiation,

standing a small war.

By noon, the drawer is empty.

Every movement costs more

than I can afford.

And yet—

whether the drawer is full

or nearly bare,

I measure the day in spoons.

I count them honestly,

and in the counting,

I endure.