My poem isn’t comfort food. No, not at all. I’m not sure if the meaning’s clear to the reader. If I were to spell it out, would it spoil the fun? Actually it’s rather trivial and common enough, this fight over where to eat (the Writers Digest Day 16 Prompt is to write about a food establishment). Actually there’s no drama because the person in question is always getting her way. But woe becomes her when the heckles are raised.
Somehow it’s too late. We’re both
plunged into semi-darkness.
Groping for meaning. Then the light
came on but different ways.
It came back as insolence.
No ointment for the soul.
When you sat eating your dumplings,
did you think about the other’s preferred
meal elsewhere? You have surely prodigious
charm, and I hope, wisdom after having
your right of way, your fill. Or should
I, being badassed, insist my way?