A Public Restroom - Poem by Steve Gripp
A hydrosphere of maritime malaise
on the counter; wasted bloody gauze from some
street war - waterlubed faucets.
The funk, the stench, ensconced in mildew around
bricklayered walls. A mechanical prison, temporary and sound.
Do I need to be reminded of my childhood? Shitstains on the
tile - a hygenic atrocity.
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