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.