“Gender roles are the worst kind of bread”
Heard about a new diner down the block.
My son and I slash through crowds
And find a small windowed booth
Which seemed painted with coal
Amongst groups of colorful groups of gemmed people.
As we gaze at our menus,
Our choices slice away my brain
My son keeps scanning down,
My ears and eyes scatter
And come back with reports
Of adults playing “second brain”
By flowing spit rivers of
He’ll have the G.I. Joe, extra Axe.
She wants the Barbie ala princess.
Can he have bits of wrestling,
With an extra helping of muscle?
The eyes told tales of daggered stares
And kids responding in shrugs
Before becoming turtles with sinking heads.
The waiter shifts to us
“Have you two come to a decision?”
Was asked as the waiter slid a software in her neck
That had a label read as “strain.”
I shoved the waiter to the peripheral
And blanketed my companion with
“Anything look appetizing, son?”
The diner became stuffed with spiked glances
Soon, enough spikes formed
For them to draw close to us.
“May I have the periwinkle flower crown?”
I don’t know what pulled my mouth’s edges up:
Knowledge that I taught him delicate dialogue
Or the spikes coming approaching us faster.