She's learnt the sound of the toaster:
the clatter-clang her stomach's
call to arms.
A hungry hand reaches
for her share of buttered bread:
placing her claim on my breakfast.

A corner of toast triumphantly sucked
and squeezed between fingers.
Liquid butter hand prints
spread across her dress
while grasping hands
await a second trophy.

She shies from damp cloth
wiped across her face,
eyes screwed in knots
mouth tightly locked.

I brush crumbs from my jumper,
and, without a pause,
she wipes hers off too.