A 'water closet' could be a pair of
full-size doors in a bedroom wall.
When opened, a flood-in-storage
blasts through the room
flushing dirt down the hall.
Instead and in reality, with ridiculous care
commodes require meticulous repair.
And now this abominable loo
for which I have no clue
though I'm cussing blue
is my bugaboo.
It's filled with goo
I'm totally screwed
I wish I knew
a toilet guru.
I need glue
and a jackhammer, too
so the homeowner can poo
but
the insolent white porcelain
simply squats there,
leering
leaking
smelly
dripping
mocking my deadlines
flushing with a hiss and gurgle
that I swear is saying
'Piss on you, plumber.'
Toilets
are a bummer.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
