Custard Fury

Custard Fury
By Michael McManus
 
In a kitchen embraced by warmth,  
Air heavy with brewing conflict,
A man, cushioned by indulgence
Flaunts his inflamed visage, crimson-raw with anger.
 
"Mother," his voice, a narcissistic plea
Echos through the room, demanding obedience,
"This custard's too dense, an egregious flaw!
Lumpy, burdensome, a culinary transgression!"
 
His mother, a bastion of composure,
Meets his grandiose gaze, unwavering,
Stirring the custard with a practiced hand,
Melding determination with tranquility.
 
"It's meant to be thick," she quietly breathes,  
A voice of tempered reason amidst the storm,
"Not diluted and feeble, akin to supermarket imitations,
But a textured delight, a mark of artistry."
 
Yet the man, locked red, in a battle of self-obsession,
Clings to his egocentric-regressed stance, unyielding fury,
His scowl etched deep, a mask of entrenched brattishness,
As the oblivious custard, untouched, simmers in the pot of innocence.

In this kitchen's allegory - a ‘drama of trivia’,
Where a mirrored tale of serious world-struggles exists,
Custard, a symbol of life's nuances, whispers its own decree,
Amidst the chaos of insignificance.

 
Portrait of the Brattish Son. Watercolour (After Jethro).