Pockets

    Pockets

My mom was a terrible cook; I think that’s why I was thin

On Fridays she made us fish cakes much to my young chagrin

She covered the lumps with stale-crumbs, till they resembled turds from a beast

The smell made my young stomach do flip flops and detest attending the feast

Each meal started off with a blessing, good thing! It would keep down the gag

I would secret each mouthful of foodstuff to stash in my made ready rag

When I saw the can waiting to make into swill there upon the counter top

I tried to encourage my friends to invite me over for a meal-time stop  

And when no one was around for rescue from my Mom’s culinary disaster

I learned to change to my favorite dress, and do it faster and faster

This dress pink and red was adorned with eight pockets all over the frilly front

It was perfect to hide the nasty fish slop in its unappetizing chunks

Then into the waiting compartment, to save me from eating such mush

And off to the bathroom I’d run, and include all the cakes in the flush

I guess to this day I should thank her for keeping me healthy and trim

Because she was no good in the kitchen, during schooldays I was quite slim