There’s a blond-haired boy about 3-years old
Running through the basement in complete glee
With a green toothbrush sticking out between
His pursed lips now covered in white foam and drool.
I stop him, because that’s my job in this 3-roomed basement.
My job is to guide these kids who come in a running.
I stop him and try to talk him into going
To the bathroom to spit.
There’s a car on his shirt and the numbers: 2, 3 & 4.
I say it like that to him,
“I see numbers 2, 3 & 4 on your shirt.”
He says, “It’s two hundred, thirty-four!”
I don’t grab his hand, because that would be too obvious.
I put my palm behind his right elbow and gently nudge him along.
There’s the bathroom. We’re in the room with the bathroom.
The other room has a couch and the other one holds the toys.
We’re in the room with the bathroom and there’s a stodgy lady there.
The woman’s blocking our way to get in to spit, so I ask her if she’ll let us in.
She finds a small round silver lock, like the kind on a lock box and fiddles with it.
She tries to unlock it, but it doesn’t work.
No bother. I see another door to the right.
I know there’s more than one way into the bathroom
And I don’t need a lady or a key to get in.
“Come on kid, let’s spit.”