Of My Repressed Indulgence

An ordinary men's room -

not simply a room, and inside,

you're not simply a man.

You are, at last, alone,

and to be a alone

defies the simply painted signs

of simple boys and girls.

 

Your own private refuse -

the low lights of candles color

tile floors and private chambers -

perhaps Jobim's "Wave" above -

and the entirely inhuman feeling

of entirely human processes.

You're in another world.

 

A place of solemn isolation.

An alcove of rest and release,

where time is only yours,

and you may be a natural man,

far from the howl of nature.

Let me die in a men's room.

Let me pass one last time.

 

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