Unlikely Measures

Sometimes one finds poems in the most unlikely places.


Morning Music


I could be a bit tidier, I think,
Perceiving the dim corkscrew of a hair,
A foreign one, a black one, in my sink,
Half buried in dried toothpaste. I share

Toothpaste and hair because I’m in a jam:
I can find nothing in my coffee cup.
I’m searching for a sonnet, and I am
Looking around my bathroom, down and up,

Listening to my limp penis pour
Forth his music in the toilet bowl.
How sad he seems. How wrong to flush. Before
My fingers touch the handle, I cajole

A little something extra out. There is
At least one drop of beauty in a piss.