This is a poem about a toilet. Please read deeply into it.
Ode du Toilette
Seahorse posture becomes question mark.
Hover over creeping mold.
Crayola has no name
for this color, this shade,
this chocolate caterpillar.
I should see a doctor.
Why should porcelain
deserve to be so pure, clean like the face of a Queen?
Devastation
feet from where we eat.