Scoundrel Time

Rest Stop Ghazal

Miscalibrated coffee intake, I’m bound for the restroom, following the cis men.
After row of urinals, row of sinks, one stall with a door that shuts. Occupied. The pits, men

filtering in and out while I wait. The guy in the stall is silent, frozen, maybe hiding, maybe
straining. This happens each day, men on phones, on facebook, hanging over the abyss, men

with pants around ankles thinking no one will know they’re there if they are utterly quiet.
I’m worried they lack fiber in their diet, that they only eat meat, I’m worried about the piss, men,

always sprinkled liberally on the seat. The sticky substance on the floor, sap tapped
from the patriarchy? I don’t want to sound crass, but I’m worried about digestion vis-a-vis men.

I pretend to ignore suits and suspenders, ill-fitting jeans, fashion asymmetries. The oxfords or
derbies, trainers or loafers, flip flops or bean boots rooted under the door, all of the glitz men

are allowed in their acceptable grayscale sea. My cortisol rises, waiting to hear that plop
of finality. I don’t want to get clocked as someone whose gender is amiss, men

swarming in and out, bigger than me. I’m worried about blockage, rectal flotsam and jetsam,
sturm and drang, who is strange, who is drained, if I didn’t wonder I’d be remiss, men.

I’d rather mind my own business, pee in a bush. Dane, you need to find your bliss
with a stand-to-pee prosthetic in the woods. In snow or mud, I won’t miss men.





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