She’s telling fellow customers, one
by one, gripping her tie-dyed leggings,
knees headbutting each other.
I need a poo. I need a poo.
Her honesty is a bullet
paralysing the generosity of strangers
in the café. I need a poo. I need a poo.
I ask where her mum went.
In there, she points to the toilet door.
She’s having a poo. The door swings open
and a beetroot red hand drags the girl
inside. 10 minutes later, they’re back
at the table next to me colouring in a unicorn.
The girl waves my way.
How was your poo? I ask.
I wasn’t doing a poo, her mum interrupts.
The girl smiles with three teeth
and picks fluff out of her belly button.

© Carl Burkitt 2023