My daughter runs her fingers through my hair
picking out the white ones
declaring it soft as a puppy’s bottom
and walks away
leaving it looking like a hay pile.
Her work is done.

Stuck between french fries and steamed veggies,
she is prehistoric savage femininity.
She curls her lip and snarls in disgust,
we have to memorize a poem
by some dead guy
for a test on Monday.