On Pissing

Poem at 22

He began weirdly hissing – almost a hum;

I would hear him from the other room –

when he was trying to pee

supposing his privacy was

consummate, but those thin pine doors

that were never ours

betrayed: if we’d been at home: but all of that was gone and lost

and now I could hear him

kind of whistling, in our lendlease house, encouragingly, trying to go,

in a sort of Mommy way; my own had turned the faucet on

and one would sit there, patienly,

pants pulled down and knowing she

could put the Universe to rights, and even me.

The strangest sounds he made: discreet, certainly, but

adamantine, egging on, pleading with his body

whose youth had inexplicably

run away and who

could comprehend:

Nothing is left, he would say.

How much harder it must be

to have to stand, and command.

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