Milano, Dun Laoghaire, 2015

by t t

(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.

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