take this one:
first before he shits he wipes with
easy grace the
lid of the seat, he really shines the damn
thing
then he spreads toilet paper over the seat,
quite neatly, even
dangling a gob of it where his powerful genitals will hang, and then he lowers with
dignity and manliness
his shorts and pants
and
sits and
shits
almost without passion
scuffling an old dirty newspaper
between his feet and reading about yesterday's basketball game--
this you see here is a Man: worldy, and no crabs for this baby, and an easy
a real easy
shit, and he will wipe his ass
while conversing with the man who is washing his hands
at the nearest sink,
and if your are standing nearby
his little mouse eyes will fall upon yours without a quiver, and then--
the shorts up, the pants up, the hook of belt, the flush of toilet,
the washing of the hands
and then he stands before the mirror
surveying the glory of himself
combing his hair carefully in neat and
delicate swoops, finishing,
then putting that
face
close to the mirror
and looking in and upon himself, then
satisfied
he leaves
first making sure to give you the elbow
or the ponderous nightmare insult of his empty
eyes, and then with
the twirling of his dumbotruck egotistical buttocks
he leaves the men's room,
and I am left with face towels like flowers
mirrors like the sea
and I am left with the sickest of hopes
that someday the real human being will arrive
so that there will be something to save
let alone
shit
out.

© Frank Silvanski