Photograph: ©Copyright 2007 by John-Ward Leighton
ANGEL OF THE TOILET
The poem was waiting
in my sweaty hands
as the toilet sign floated angel like
over the tone deaf singer.
A raucous yell heralds a number
and somebody's over priced breakfast
and I sit wolfing down a bargain doughnut
neatly defeating thirty kilometres of sweat.
Thirty nine screeches the fat lady
in a voice that could burn the chrome
off a trailer hitch.
Thank the gods the singer is on his break.
The singer has a music stand
but he doesn't fool me
and I wonder how much to have him
shut the fuck up?
A covey of young Moms
flutters in all high tech strollers
and shiny little ones.
This scene pleases the old doughnut man.
They rearrange the furniture
which seems to be the need of women everywhere.
The little ones walking and crawling,
but not quite talking, work on driving Mom crazy.
Eighty four squawks the fat lady
and I wonder at that moment
if there is such a thing as an
angel of the toilet.