What Do Our Bathrooms Do After We Leave?

by

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.

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