Freedom to Choose

“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.