stuck in a new york city public restroom
waiting for a friend
while listening to the symphony of toilets
flushing, cello strings struck
as women play their eyebrows
like strings, as people look into reflections
and see tarnished faces in bathroom mirrors
rather than bednight story dreams in rivers,
as the new age automatic toilet
i am sitting on
attempts to
to push
us all
and it does, sometimes,
but the cell phone ring
always interrupts the flow of the sea
and makes me wash up like a dead starfish
brought by a tidal wave cell phone ring
out to sea, out to the bathroom
tiles, with children and their parents
staring down at me, wondering what it is,
and touching my hand, pulling me in,
making me apart of their world
as i attempt to break back into
the port authority bus station inside my head
with its magnificent public restroom
that can flush whole worlds



from me.