She says, “can’t you do anything else?”
as I look over her shoulder,
hoping that someday
she’ll finish her math.
“Of course I can,” I say,
“but I can’t imagine anything
that would give me more pleasure
that sitting here, watching you.”
She gives me that killing look
we both know so well.

The Little Tyrant does what she can
to delay the inevitable
of learning, working
and growing.
I try to belie the delays
as best I can
but she is masterful
at engineering off-track distractions.

“How about a poem?”
she asks.
“You like those.
Why not write something
while I’m finishing up these chores?”
I’m happy to comply
so I compose,
imposing my creativity
upon an identification of her impossibleness.

It is a race, then,
between us,
as she strives to get to TV time
and I struggle to finish writing,
before this creature who controls me
eventually jumps up to shout,
“I’m done! Finally!
Now can I go out?”