In the hundred
year old bathroom
with the cast iron tub
a man
with a hard-on
and a handlebar
mustache
soaks in red
tinted water
after a full day
of slaughtering pigs
in Magic City
he is reading
an illegal copy
of a serialized
novel about a guy
named Bloom
written by
some Irish
smart-ass
who lives
in Paris
earlier in the day
a women
with a Polish
accent secretly
washes out
her blood stained
clothing while
planning the next
women’s protest
for the vote down
at the courthouse
the bathroom
floor is now
sagging
toward the dying
rain forests
of the Pacific
Northwest
the water
in the toilet
is longing for
a good
cup of joe
each night
after the little
anarchist savior
goes down
my wife and I
convene here
for a few brief
minutes away
from the rest of the
crumbling world
we whisper to
each other
while brushing
our teeth
and leaning
slightly
toward the
outer banks
we whisper love
we whisper anger
we whisper sadness
we whisper fear
we whisper strategy
we laugh silently
we cry silently
we shake our heads
in disbelief
this tiny room
has swallowed
a hundred years
of shit and blood
and hair and skin
how many infants
take their first bath here
in the past century
how many farts
have been birthed here
have any from the past
actually woken up the baby
in the other room
with the strength
of their utterance
I hope so
we stand
in bare feet
in this tiny place
we lean
eastward
every night
and watch
our bodies
slowly age
I love it almost more
than all the other things
that I love so much
our quiet meetings
of exhaustion
in this slowly
tilting place
.
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