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The Toilet


My toilet won’t stop running;

it keeps a solid tune from the bathroom.

It screams at me to say,

“the on-duty maintenance team

probably does not want to come see me

at 9 in the evening.

But I will make them come anyway.”

I do not care.

Well, only a little bit.

The new student lost their identity today,

saw the pages of the ID swift by him

like a Volkswagen on the summer highway.

Wide eyed and in what seems to be a new place,

he only found that thieves know no zip code.

Before this happened, I brushed my teeth.

I bit my nails over the cracked mirror in my bathroom.

At 3 am I thought about the ways in which a thousand

hours studying may not ever give me stability.

I thought about the presentation today.

But in the midst of a person

who has lost everything that

was able to get him where he needed,

nothing but this mattered.

And at least I have myself,

a file of experiences and documents

that prove my existence.

I know that I can use my hands

and fill the back of my rusted toilet,

muffling the screams that keep

me awake at night.

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The Toilet
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