He yearns to move away from the steak knives
with their wooden-handled arrogance
and their sharp serrations.
Away from the regular knives who
laugh at his wussy handle pattern and his
dull, flat edge that’s only good for spreading butter.
His heart’s been won by the compartment two doors down.
Though they say the spoonies are an evil cult
He sees only softness and smooth mirrored curves.