Poetry

The first poem I ever learned:

here I sit

all broken-hearted

tried to shit

but only farted

Facinated by this little diddly that I read on the inside wall of some truck-stop stall as a kid. Stuck in my mind so elequoently. I still think it's a near perfect poem. It's pretty much the only poem I could ever quote.

Remember those days when scratchings, nasty drawings and phone numbers were scrawled all over the stall walls? Those were fun days. And then you could come out to wash your hands and gawk at the little dirty machines promising sexual satisfaction for her that only cost like $.50? I always kind of wondered what little things were in there for only two quarters.

I was always curious to call one of those phone numbers and see if anybody really answered, too. I pretty much figured it was all a scam though and didn't want to waste the money or take the chance of making a call. I was always curious though. It was fun being curious and facinated about what things might lie beyond these numbers and machines and in the hearts and activities of the people who did these things.

I usually didn't stick around in these bathrooms too long. They were always kind of scary and dirty.

Now-a-days in big cubicle-ridden corporate professional America, there are no scrawlings on the bathroom walls. At least not here at my work. Grown men go into these stalls and fart big and loud and make disgusting sounds and nobody there snickers or laughs or says a thing. We all quickly do our business, wash our hands, and quickly come and go with very sober faces.

One of these days I'm going to shout out to one of these stall members, "Hey, keep it down in there will ya!?"

Then I'll have to hold my snicker as I rush back to my cubicle to hide.