It's a dance to relieve one's
self in a public place,
one leg here, a foot there,
a want to change of clothes,
spatters of others on the floor,
failure to wipe, failure to remove,
out of paper towels, the flow
of the water spout will not filter
me, does not see me, all I can do
is read the scribble on the wall.



Not sure why he spells his name
with two m's sometimes. Maybe
it's just been that long.
You can tell by the way he sniffs
the day, it's not all good here. He
wants you to think it is. We all do.
How are you, I'm fine. Do they
even give you time to answer? I
sit across, study his antlers, want
to set him free. But his handlers
just won't let me.



His mind, his body
rises above the crowd.
You can see it in the distance,
over the hilltop
when you reach the crest,
another feature in the skyline.
You do not know he is there
until he moves. Then you
think, What a mammoth figure,
I could never be like that.



Their television screen
blares from another room.
It's a space I do not care
to enter. The smell of the
room is the odor of unwashing,
the odor of detritus.
I'm just here briefly, just to
shake a hand, try to be warm,
but the sing-song of the cat
takes me back to lying face
down in a plate of eggs,
not wanting to go to school.


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He hosts a number of blogs, including spinrockreader.blogspot.com, where he publishes other writers' work. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.