I’m sitting on the toilet seat staring at the shower curtain touching my knee.
It’s an intricate pattern that’s almost Greek key, but not,
I see an owl—
two owly eyes and a beak that howls hoot hoot.
The whole curtain is owls.
I wipe and get friendly with my sphincter. At a certain age
you become more in touch with your erogeny.
I don’t know what it means, if it means any-
thing, but the body changes it doesn’t stay
static. It evolves, goes through phases
like the moon
like girls in college
like laser light beams in a space opera (no, that’s phasers).
I’m going through phases. I want to be the person
who sits in a Starbucks reading poetry
gripping a grande
cappuccino or flat white or green tea latte
something slightly bitter with steamed milk—
not too sugary—nothing too
addictive; melt into a wing-back chair,
plush stained cush-
ions, holding my paper cup with pinkie-finger poking out daintily,
a tome of the finest meter and rhyme in my lap
whiling away the day
to the sound of easy listening and holiday favorites,
chasing aristocracy, but belonging in a barn
with the owl, the cock and the tufted tit-
which isn’t a mouse at all.