Monday, May 04, 2009

Friends

I am having trouble posting poems so that they format correctly. This was an experiment that failed. I tried to fix it and that failed too. Sorry. If interested, see it properly formatted here.


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,


but she’s no dwarf.



Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet,

and I generate no light, except

perhaps toward any witches who see auras.

Mom might; she’s that weird.


I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back


and give her a hug.



"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.

She knows it, too.

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.

“Milkshake,” I say. “Real friends

make their friends milkshakes.

You’re my friend, right Mom?”



“Oh,” she says, “you want to make me a milkshake,


how sweet. You charm me with your generosity.”


“Awwwwww . . .” I release a big sigh


and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,

but already, she hauls out the milk

ice-cream and sugar.



“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.


And she can wash the blender.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090504-1157-2e, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)

5 comments:

Nadine said...

The linked version is definitely easier to read. Interesting poem.

I prefer mint chocolate chip milkshakes. ;-)

Mary Stebbins Taitt said...

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.

BrightBoy said...

This is an oddly-disconcerting poem. I liked the darkness of it.

BerryBird said...

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.

Mary Stebbins Taitt said...

Thanks so much Bright Boy and Berrybird for your attention and kind comments. It is a bit dark!