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Plumbing and Producing

I indulge in handicap stalls, though anxiety looms
of denying someone in a wheelchair
or impeding others seeking this heterotopia—for me,
it’s a surfeit that begs for queering.

At home I slip off my boxers and drape them on the doorknob, no pesky knee and ankle
snags. I dawdle and procrastinate, then rush fearing rectal prolapse. I ain’t ready for
pickled tissue.

My dad took his reprieve
in: fan drone,
New York Review of Books,
accumulating acridity.
He heard our inopportune need, through the door, with mild chagrin.

I need to elaborate my shit space;
I’ll mail a letter in a rhododendron squat.

Plumbing and Producing
2015