Poetry by Dythandra

The Road Less Traveled

Collegial aspirations
Never burned within me
So why are they surprised
To find I have spurned
The fall migration to hallowed halls of learning?

Leagues, vine-covered or otherwise
Have never appealed to me
And frat boys make me shudder.

My father shakes his head a lot
And mutters--he fears the direct approach
Mother, though, damns the torpedos:

Don't you want to go off to school Like all your friends?
All my friends?
She always did have a penchant for hyperbole.

What do you want to do with your life?

I mutter something about
"Medical research test subject"
and retreat to my room.

Then it begins:
The financial offensive.

The fiscal bleating becomes the new
Book of Common Prayer
at our dining table.

She reads the grocery bills
While he chants about heat and taxes.
Eventually, I offer to pay board.
(I'd leave in a heartbeat but I lack the resources
to afford the freedom my psyche screams for)

They agree to a number,
But still take every opportunity
To suggest I am
An ambitionless burden.

Then, a few weeks after "good" offspring
Have blessed their parents with the empty nest
Mine so clearly yearn for,
Comes a new development.

I can tell something's up.
Mother asks what I'd like for supper
Instead of handing me the pork chops
And suggesting I overcome my distaste for such
As a meatless diet has clearly robbed me of
The nutrients that fuel ambition.

I cautiously suggest vegetarian pasta,
And she cheerily begins the preparation
While I look out the window
Expecting one of those "tough love boot camp" vans
To pull up any moment.

Father enters the dining room with his
"We have to have in important talk" face on.

That kind of talk best accomplished
When I keep my mouth shut.

He is a model of understanding
And worldly sophistication.
Of course my internet radio show is a great hobby
(He knows about that?)
and the tattoo parlour job an interesting phase
But it's time to grow up.

Then the anvil plummets.

He's spoken to his boss, and it seems there's room
For another junior office drone in training.

My mother bursts in as if a conductor waived a baton
And crescendos her gushing about the great opportunity with:
"And haven't you always wondered about what your father does at work?"

I've spent more time contemplating the mating habits
of the long-tailed shrew.

Just as I'm debating whether it will be my bedroom door
Or the front door which slams behind me,
He hisses one incentive
That turns this offer of purgatory
Into Eden's seductive fruit:

"You could make enough to get your own place."

The looks on both parentals' faces--
Clear indication that they covet this resolution
As much as I do--
Shouldn't bother me.

At least that's what I tell myself.

"We'd even quit charging you board, so you could
save up to get your place sooner"

Great Central Insurance.

Here I come, dress code or not.

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(more poetry by Dythandra can be found here)