Back when my father still smoked, 
my mother wore dresses at home, 
and my picky eating kept me 
from joining the Clean Platers Club, 
my mother made a no-bake cheesecake.  

Sitting at our dining room table, 
I ate only the sweet, yummy crust— 
didn’t care for the filling my parents 
told me was cream cheese. A disaster 
for my young life, since I decided 
that if I didn’t like cream cheese, 
I wouldn’t like ice cream either— 
cream, and cream, get it? Luckily, 
someone talked my madness out of me 
and I went on to satisfy my sweet 
tooth with crust and ice cream.   

And I’ve kept that up long after 
my father gave up smoking,  
my mother updated her wardrobe, 
and I peeked beyond the four 
corners of our dining room table.