Ice Cream at Jenny’s

Ice Cream at Jenny’s

Her Mum ran an old people’s home;

more used to unfussy eaters

and those that take their meals sloppy,

not like me –

the child with an aversion to anything milky.

“Who doesn’t like ice cream?

There’s children in Africa starving hungry,

I bet they’d give anything for a spoonful

of cool vanilla with strawberry sauce.

Stop being silly.

Just try some and you’ll soon be asking for more.”

But the slowly melting sight of the off white puddle

drained me cold.

I knew children were supposed to do what they’re told,

be polite when asked over for tea,

but there’d be no appeasing my tummy

if I swallowed that pasteurised catastrophe.

“We don’t eat this at home”, I quietly pleaded,

wishing Bernard’s Watch was real

so I could run for my freedom

from this feeding conundrum into the TV,

but time kept on tick-tocking

and Jenny’s Mum kept on nagging.

Oh how her smile started dropping

when she grasped there was no interrupting

my volcanic eruption of dairy destruction

from spewing its way back up.

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