Bradley at the Dinner Table

 
You don’t want salad.
Your mouth is full of
moist dayglow gobs of
bubble-mint spiderwebs.
You spit them out in your napkin,
slurping an emerald smoothie
I made just for you.
It tastes like gummy bears
you tell me, as you take a sip
that plants sprouts on your chin
when you are done.

I’m spiralizing the cucumbers into
a decorative frill for your plate.
I hope that the curly
green and white garland
might convince you to give
the villainous vegetable a try.

Your refusal bounces
off impenetrable parental armor.
My lack of luck tonight will be
your morning breakfast smoothie —
a mother never gives up.

You smile party streamers at me,
and tap a staccato rhythm
with fork and knife against
the rectangular white table surface,
then the back of your wooden chair.

Stop is caught between my teeth —
I dance to your beat.

Spike-y Pieces by Marla Benton