Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Ode to a Porta John

What arriving racer does not scan the scene
for where the director has put the portable latrine?

After the drive, with things at their worst,
how good to see that I've gotten to you first.

You stand tall in rows, green like limes.
Before the race starts, I'll visit twenty times.

No sink to use, no need to flush,
perfect for the racer in a rush.


The slap of your door, the twang of your spring,
the plastic lock, and green-red indicator thing.

Your little metal mirror distorts like vapor,
but you're rarely not stocked with plenty of paper.

Sometimes you rock, on a stone or dirt lip.
Wouldn't want to be inside were you ever to tip.


Occasionally, there's time to stare at your door,
to just sit and think, shorts dropped to the floor.

Whether metal bar or plastic lobe,
your door handle is hell for the germaphobe.

Without tile or porcelain, you're nearly all plastic,
yet you still send me off feeling fantastic.

As much as I appreciate and value your stay,
I can't envy the man who must take you away.

When I see you elsewhere, in some other place,
your chemical scent makes me yearn for the race.

These wedding goers can't know you like a racer can,
your hand sanitizer, conspicuous lack of a fan.

How could a non-racer know what it can mean
to endure a long line, then see your red tab turn green?





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