Freestyle Poem
I watch the child sitting on the floor
I watch the plate splatter
I watch the contents streak all over the floor
Like strokes from a painters brush
The child crawls on the floor
Crawls over its food
Over its nourishment
Sweetly oblivious that I cannot give it more
Sweetly aware that I will
That I must
I pick up the child
It refuses to come
It refuses the mop, the wiping hand
It’s knees are spreading the yellow brush strokes of mashed potatoes
It’s sweet mouth smiles, unfed
Knowing that it will be
I clean up the food with my hands
Then wash them (the hands)
And ladle another serving of mashed potatoes and rice on the plate
Sparing them from God knows whose share
And pinch in the food
The child cries
Disliking the pinch
But in reality disliking the nourishment
Oblivious
Whirring its hands
Oblivious that I have only so much to give
Only so much to divide and divvy up
I pinch in the food
The child cries
Thrashes
I save the plate from the whirring hands
Not begrudging
Him, begrudging
Not knowing, oblivious
Not having to remember this moment
Not that I will ever bring it up or anything associated with it
Not that he will care
Not that he will ever have to spare it a thought
Not that I will ever mind.