“Who used the last of the milk?”
The cry went up the stair,
In the fridge, an empty carton
My offspring left it there.
“How many times – please!
If you use it, just get more…”
“It wasn’t me,” they fib with ease,
A cereal bowl on the floor.
(I bet the Queen of England, never has this trouble,
I bet she gets silver jugs of it, delivered at the double!)
My teenagers they roll their eyes,
“ Mum! It’s cool! you need to chill.”
“You’re acting kind of ‘Karen’“
(Can I write them out the Will?)
I stared darkly at my coffee,
Picturing the creamy, frothy lack.
To have to drink it bitter, bitterly and black?
Standing before the Magistrate, she asked, “how do you plead?”
(Exhibit A, The empty carton, and B, The coffee seed.)
“Provocation! Your Honour – A crème of passion, pray!”
“All I wanted was a drop of milk for my café-au-lait.”
© Katharine Summers 2022 All Rights Reserved