Neither a constitutional
right, nor a maternal one.
I slouch onto the toilet,
thrilled for five minutes, ten
if I’m lucky, of silence.
Feet patter on hardwood,
“Mimi, Mimi, Mimi!”
He finds me, climbs into my lap,
crunching contentedly on a
pepper slice, smelling of sunshine,
bubbles, jam-hands though
there is no jam in the house.
He pulls me forth reluctantly
from silence, curls soft against my cheek.
“Mimi, look!” He points at my underwear,
red, then waves his pepper, also red.
“Same, same!” he exclaims, exuberant,
so proud that he noticed.
I sigh, smile against my will.
He, unashamed, unbothered,
supremely confident of his reception,
no part of him pauses, his legs
swinging back and forth, a moment
as fleeting as a sunbeam, then
a flashed smile, slides, patters off,
my hands empty, and I have privacy.