Close Call Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The sign said 'Liege'.
A smelly town in proper Belgium.
The stop was short,
much distance lay ahead.
I parked the bike
on its pedestal
right near the kiosk,
and then went inside
to help myself
to its soft papers
that one would use
to wipe then flush.
That was the plan.

And, if your travels
take you to that
smelly town,
I hereby warn you
that their railway stations
do not have seats
but single holes,
two handles,
where they do expect
you lay your egg
of brownish colour.
Oh, what a shock!

And when my key
fell into that,
which was intended
to travel further down,
through force of gravity,
I had to stoop,
though turned around,
no longer squatting
close to peril.
And dug with skill,
and, let us say,
much quiet desperation
until I saved it
from a certain
last farewell.