Your fourth birthday. 
Sunday after church. 
The three of us 
alone. No money 
for a party, teething baby 
on my hip, a mountain 
of laundry 
waits at home. 

But I splurge, 
take you for onion rings,
the biggest slice 
of chocolate cake 
your baby blues 
have ever seen. 
Tall glass of milk 
to wash it down, please.

Little brother 
tucked boothside, full
of midday sleep, 
you and I giggle 
as we share our feast.
My happy boy, my joy, 
yor smile lights my heart, 
but I could cry

when the waitress 
brings the check 
for just a dollar
ninety-nine. She claims
her service
was awfully slow, so 
everything
but the milk is free.