What's for dinner?

Mom shoveled two spoonfuls of mixed vegetables
onto Heath’s plate. One more than usual.
He’d been sick lately and wanted him to get healthy.

Heath hated these plates: the yellow and red floral prints.
The chipped china edges and the stains from barbecue sauce.
He was missing his favorite TV show because of Mom.
He thought to himself, “Eight-year-olds need cartoons more than their vegetables.”
Mom seated herself across from Heath, and dug her elbows into the table.
“Eat, Hun.”

His fork raced across the plate like a sleek jet boat through dense blue waves.
It crashed against his pork roast, it sent the peas
rolling way from the carrots, from the timbered chunks of broccoli.
Heath was wishing for the phone to ring
or the walls would start turning colors so Mom would get scared
and leave the kitchen.
“Playing with your food just makes it cold. Just eat it.”
Heath continued to transport his food from edge to edge,
occasionally stabbing an astray piece of undercooked meat.
He hardly chewed it.

The tabby cat clock’s tail swayed above the refrigerator.
Its hands touched, which signaled Mom to retreat to the bathroom.
A door creaked shut, and Heath pushed a majority of the vegetables
underneath a large piece of meat.
“Mom, I’m finished.”
Heath stepped on the garbage can lever, causing the lid to swing up.
The cold food fell with a thud
onto napkins and coffee grounds from yesterday morning,
like bodies into an open grave.

The flush of a toilet and the creak of the bathroom door happened
simultaneously.
A warning for Heath, to let him know to hide in the living room
with the TV on.