Friends
OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I detest work
but I need a milkshake. Ready? Here goes:
I saunter in the kitchen door.
“I love you, little Sweetness and Light,” my mother says.
“Whatever,” I answer, and keep on walking.
Hear the grump in my voice? She deserves it.
First, I’m not little. I’m a teenager, and I tower
over her. OK, only by an inch or two,
Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet,
and I generate no light, except
perhaps toward any witches who see auras.
I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back
"OK, what do you want?” She asks.
“Friendship,” I say.
She guesses right, of course.
I hug her mostly only when I want something.
The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background
or disappears off my radar entirely.
I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.
I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.
I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games
and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.
I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.
I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room
clean the bird cage and bury the compost.
Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .
I hug her again, stroke her hair. “Friend,” I say.
make their friends milkshakes.
“Oh,” she says, “you want to make me a milkshake,
how sweet. You charm me with your generosity.”
“Awwwwww . . .” I release a big sigh
but already, she hauls out the milk
“Chocolate,” I yell, as I dash upstairs.
Don’t tell Mom, but I often create a perfect milkshake.
I just hate to wash the blender.
Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon
or George killed any monsters yet.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
5 comments:
The linked version is definitely easier to read. Interesting poem.
I prefer mint chocolate chip milkshakes. ;-)
Thank you! I DO appreciate your kindness!!!!!!
All true--well, the INCIDENT is true, whether or not my interpretations of his thoughts are precisely true is anyone's guess--i guess they are.
This is an oddly-disconcerting poem. I liked the darkness of it.
I like how this poem leads the reader to initially think that you are the first person narrator talking about your own mother, and not guessing the thoughts of your grumpy teenage son.
Thanks so much Bright Boy and Berrybird for your attention and kind comments. It is a bit dark!
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