Traffic Jam through Condiment County

[SilverMire]

V2, 11/5/14

The roadblock weeps
as I roll in my foldable throne,

sticky and red, lying in the aisle
between me and the milk.

I retreat, but not before we click -
not before I give the secret handshake
of a nod that comes with being kids
among adults -

not before we understand
finitude of expression
is akin to growing up.

He looks to his mother
with an untranslatability
called “I hate the hypocrisy
exhibited in our household,"

called "I'm filing for emancipation
soon as I'm literate,"

called “Sure, yoghurt’s tasty,
but I really want Nutella.”

V1

I lock eyes with the roadblock
as my trolley locks its wheels.

He's sticky and salty, loud and red and
weeping on the floor between me and the milk.

So I retreat, but not before
we click - not before
I give that secret handshake of a nod
that comes with being kids among adults -

not before I realise that he's the one bound
by the finitude of language.

He turns back to his mother
and gives her another inadequate look
called “I hate the hypocrisy
exhibited in our household,"

called "I'm filing for emancipation
soon as I'm literate,"

called “Sure, yoghurt’s tasty,
but I really want Nutella.”