Youngest

As the oldest child, I got to choose

Before my other sibs.

From where to sit or what to do,

I was awarded dibs.

 

The fact of being older meant

I had a certain clout

That might have caused resentment

But was always straightened out.

 

My younger grandchild, though, believes

Her status holds the keys

To open every door she can

Which “youngest” guarantees.

 

She doesn’t think it’s fair the order

Of her brother’s birth

Allows him any privileges,

But then, for what it’s worth,

 

If “oldest” has no value,

“Youngest” has to be the same.

Too bad there is no middle child

Around to fan the flame.