Bob Hicok

Hope

I found a spoon in the road, the handle 
bent up and over itself, the bowl charred 
on the bottom from flame. When I put my ear 
to a junkie's spoon, I hear waves 
swallowing themselves. 
In case someone had tossed the spoon away 
to implore a clean river to return 
to their veins, I gave it an honored place
under the sycamore where our cats are buried. 
Some nights the spoon eats moonlight, 
some nights, rain. Every day I try 
to believe in angels, and every day I fail.

Write with us. Learn with us. Publish with us.
Join a growing community of poets & readers.
Early access to calls, workshops, and updates.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.
No spam. No ads. No data-selling. Unsubscribe anytime.
MEMBERSHIP PORTAL    |    FAQ   |    SUBMIT
2025 ONLY INK, Inc. All rights reserved.
ONLY POEMS®️ and associated marks are trademarks of ONLY INK, Inc. All individual works are copyrighted by their respective authors. All poems, essays, and artworks published on this site remain the intellectual property of their creators and may not be reproduced without explicit permission. The views expressed in published works are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of ONLY INK, Inc., its editors, or affiliated entities. While many works draw on lived experience, they may contain fictionalized elements; no reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. ONLY POEMS is an ad-free, independent, reader-supported publication.