Favorite Poem by Francis Santaquilani

Your sister

Carves the roast and

Serves it to your parents.

She smiles broadly.

Your parents smile in return

And the compliments fly.

She then carves a piece for you.

Your head droops

Your eyes intensely follow the knife

As it slices through the tender meat.

Then your eyes dropp to the juices

Flowing from the cut.

You smile

But I hear your heart sink

And I hear you think

That there must be

A reserved spot in hell,

An especially hot spot,

For parents who play favorites

And rank their children.