She slides into her high chair
all shiny and sweet, a perfect model
for a Gerber baby or a Christmas card.
I ask what I can feed her
and her mom grins and says,
“Try the mixed veggies. She loves ’em.
Oh, and let her have her own spoon.”
I reach into the cupboard and pull out
the little plastic tub with
the dull orangish sludge inside,
a color I don’t believe exists
on its own in Earth’s nature,
tear off its foil roof, wince
as I splash a drop of the goo
on my shoe, and ladle it into a bowl
on the tray in front her.
“We’re letting her try
to feed herself more,” mom calls
from the other room.
“I can see that,” I reply,
recoiling from the horror movie splatter
of icky carrots, peas and something elses.
“Looks like you’re learning
to dress yourself at the same time,”
I whisper to the orangey alien
with the million-dollar squeal and
billion-dollar smile wearing her lunch.
See, she loves her veggies.
Poem #5 in Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo, based on Writers Digest’s call for a Vegetable poem.