Bradley at the Dinner Table
You don’t want salad.
Your mouth is full of
moist dayglow gobs of
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.