Almonds in my Hand (Poem)

Thought they’d come in handy,
but hardly—
he was so into whatever else
that nor would his favourite treat
make him stop that babble,
telling me—I am dead meat.

Yet I think it wasn’t all in vain,
the sweat and treat sustained,
since what they say,
the ones maybe sane,
that you learn something everyday,
and that day—or night I learned
that anger was preferred,
leaving almonds—behind.

While he spoke in rage and anger,
the treat—each time greater,
found a sweet appeal towards my hands,
and a new-born sweat.

Cause melting jovially away,
were the almonds in my hand
and I’d be glad—or mad,
that never did I hear,
some kind of biased paper
headline, news or TV maker
too keen
to name
almonds healthy to your skin.