It's the world's longest potty training
in which nothing is gaining,
only losing:
towels, clothes, sanity,
previously folded laundry
for a toddler's untrained musing
while standing in doorways
dripping, hesitating.
My head is tilted sideways,
asking, "Really?"
How long will this last?
Nobody knows, but the past
tells me not to hope,
only mop and regain scope
while wiping, waiting on her
flushing, frustrating
every daily intention.
And did my toddler mention
(oh, please let it be, once again)
that this puddle is not apple juice
I'm currently standing in?
