Owls

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-

mouse

which isn’t a mouse at all.

Hoooooooooot.

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