Tuesday, July 23, 2013

V. 2, #117: July 23, 2013 (Men's Room, Revisited)

It's bad enough when you try to converse
with me while in the men's room at the wall.
But when, enthroned, you choose to make a call
on your cell phone--my God, that's so much worse!

What must your poor girlfriend or mother think
to hear you grunt as foul excretions flow?
Does she just sigh, as if she didn't know,
or is she glad? At least she's spared the stink!

If I burst in, ripped that phone from your hand,
and flushed it down the next bog in a huff,
would you then realize enough's enough?
Would it take that to make you understand?

I'm sure of one thing, friend, and this is it:
nobody wants to listen to your shit.

(Author's note: a companion piece to this sonnet from the first volume, detailing a personal pet peeve.)

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