Today's Poem from an Annoyed Mother

Bewail we now the loss--no, we shall name it for what it truly is--the theft of our purple comb. Yes. THAT purple comb. 

The one that has, post-shower, teased the snarls from our hair these many mornings. 

And although we could point a finger (or indeed point a whole hand, an empty, combless hand) at a certain young teenager, who under cover of maternal ill health and weakness did dare to remove and retain that comb, that purple comb, from our private hair accessories drawer, 

we shall not. 

For we are not that petty. 

Although perhaps we ARE that petty. For in the dark, angry, hellish places of our heart, we do envision coughing all over her dinner, and then serving it to her with a smile.