What Do Our Bathrooms Do After We Leave?
The room emptied itself of the water
fallen off my tan and testicles, letting it run
askew around islets of black sperms.
In the drunken lane outside, signboards
carry arrows unused by the passer-by, the roads
the directions point to            have long un-laid
themselves to the sylvan past.
A Stonehenge of hands rose
across the street, holding placards
that demanded I apologize for my poem,
What Do Our Bathrooms Do After We Leave?
But the placards faced one another
as though there was an uprising of sorts –
a mutiny among themselves –
over whether to agree and not.