The Children's Room at the Kennebunk
Public
Library is full of toddlers-
a
noisy chaos of glue sticks, scraps of colored
paper,
moms, books, stools and low tables,
more
upscale than our country library.
The
kids seemed more privileged too,
as
no doubt they are, bossy
unwilling
to give up the wooden train set.
"Well,
piss on them", I think and maybe
Bindi
heard because she grew very quiet
and
her Bluey pants turned dark
and
wet.
Scoop
up her blushing form and hustle
to
the men's room, to the privacy
of the handicapped stall
(too
flustered to correct myself and think disabled).
Peel
off the wet pants and the Paw Patrol
undies.
A futile seat on the toilet but
that
stream had moved on. Now what?
Off
comes my vest, fleece and
undershirt
– transformed into body-warm dress.
Coat
and clothes back on but at my age,
I
can't leave a toilet unpissed.
Bindi
is behind me, angling for a look.
She
knows what her vulva is
and
the word "penis".
But
there will be no anatomy lesson on my watch.
Circling
the toilet bowl
to keep my back to her,
"I
need some private time. I am being shy."
From
behind me, in a gentle voice
without
judgement -
"It's
just me, Opa.
It's just me."
