Thursday, October 24, 2013

Breakfast recommendation

Washroom at the Bourgeoisie Pig

Sometimes when I’m out of town, alone
in some restroom smack dab
in the middle of nowhere, or
occupied behind the locked door
of a big city washroom
hot and cold spigots preaching
sermons of rust to an enameled sink
waist high in ancient wainscot
sunlight by faith alone
transcending one small sash window
stained dumb with alluvial grime  
upturned face pale in watery adoration
The Great Hive humming
just the other side of the old tympanic
membrane of a door, I flush
with the not altogether unpleasant feeling
of hiding from a fitful world, or
maybe more to the point
that the dogged world has suddenly dropped
everything to look for me
a spell easily broken by three sharp raps and
nagging guilt from my failure
to follow posted hand washing protocols.
I settle on
dark roast coffee
the breakfast bowl and a heaping
side of disappointment to find out the world
(in a hurry as usual)
has already come and gone
(espresso to go and a bear claw)
without once inquiring after my whereabouts.

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