I shit with the door open now;
read shampoo bottles, and the history
of the Q-tip from the box
when she shouts “everything
going well in there?”
I don’t answer. “You know
you have that colonoscopy tomorrow?”
I ignore her, finish my business
and wipe. “Doctor said your ass
needs to be cleaned out for tomorrow.”
I haven’t completed a sentence
in two years, only endless grunts
wrapped in dreams of fishing
I sit on the couch in my boxers
and unbuttoned shirt; hairy
and scarred; forty years
worth of mileage for all the world
I look at the books I don’t want to read.
Ignore the pens I’ve grown to hate,
instead I opt to look out the window
and scratch my nuts like an ape.
“It smells in here,” she says.
“What died in you?”
The truth, finally.