(for Sylvia)
You are not yet three and yet here we are
at your usual table by the corner window,
with waiter Mio, on whom you have a crush,
dancing away with your order. When I rise,
you ask where I’m headed. “To the loo,”
I say. “OK,” you reply, and then pause until
I’m nearly there. “Don’t wet your pants,”
you call out across the lunchtime diners.
“And no messing in the toilet.” No, indeed.
