You count to ten
and you always miss seven.
You like the sound of yah
so you say it all the time,
even when I ask you
if you eat elephant toenails
or if you’re on your way to France.
You think everyone loves you
this much
your arms stretched so wide
it strains your face.
I swear
sometimes I can smell
you growing
like an iron
that is always
plugged in.
I don’t mind you getting taller
but could you promise
to stay soft
with wonder.