The Portrait

She shakes me awake and throws the clothing on the bed. You have twenty minutes she screams as she slams the door. Why does she do this to me I question as I go to pee. Nineteen minutes later she is dragging me out of my room. I am too old for this I say, she stares at me. I ask one thing of you and you can't do it? I ask for thirty minutes out of your life and you can't give it to your mother? So off to the car I go. I pass our stupid dog barking at the TV. So we get to the portrait studio and there is Aunt Mildred with her mouthy parrot and her three loser sons. Granddad is there holding his fake leg, don't know why he just doesn't put it on, think it would work better. Mom-Mom is there with her tight black dress and blue hair. So the photographer calls the motley crew in and sets us up in front of the picture of a field of wildflowers in spring. I think the guy is going for the artificial warmth look. I think I need to throw up. So he snaps a couple of pictures and shakes his head. Granddad is holding his leg in front of Uncle Bart. The twins are pulling each other hair. My Mom looks like she is going to pass out. Cousin lizzies make-up is running. I need a smoke, I need a life. So an hour and a half later the photographer is pulling his hair out and swears the last one is a keeper. Trying for a glorious defeat I take it and sneak off to Burger King for a bite and a smoke.challenge poem Written April 9th, 2002 © on Apr 09 2002 11:08 AM PST    0 • 14