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, 090503-1911-1^st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)