Minnesota State Fair by Mike Finley

I wait outside the Port a Potty for the 7-year-old boy
inside to finish, and when I go in, there is boy pee everywhere.
It is like the first few moments following the monsoon.
It is a 360 degree bombardment, nothing was spared.
I used to be a boy, I know they have a powerful stream
but even standing up they are so close to the seat,
you would think they could aim for a better result.
Or maybe this is intentional, a kind of declaration.
Powerless in the greater world, they let loose their stream
behind the pulled latch, grim determination on their pusses.
I daub the area with toilet paper and gingerly lower myself
onto the damp, like a sad clown making way for the next act.

Mike went to a picnic but there was nobody there. This sort of thing is always happening.