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
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.
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.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
090504-1157-2e, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)
earlier draft below:
Friends
OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I need a milkshake
but detest work. I saunter in the kitchen door.
"I love you, little Sweetness and Light," my mother says.
"Whatever," I answer, and keep on walking.
I hear the grump in my voice, but 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 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 Mom can wash the blender.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
090504-0340-2c, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1st of this version (earlier draft/version was a shorter prose poem)
1 comment:
This is great, Mary! Totally made me smile. :-)
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