MY TOILET SEAT

is, at least,
30. I bought it
from a horseplayer,
diabetic, hardware store owner,
I used to drink with
at a saloon
across from my
coffin shaped
apartment
after my original--
a wooden yellow one
--cracked.
It has served my ass
well,
as well as the ass'
of others,
especially women,
well as well.
It has cradled, coaxed,
implored, and pleasured
the elimination of bodily
wastes, exasperations,
and miseries while,
at times,
giving rise,
to dreams, fantasies and,
of course,
relief.

The screws
and bolts
that secure it
have long ago
come loose;
a tightening
is always necessary.
The seat itself,
has blackened smudges
and dots
from ashes
and lit cigarettes
that fell upon it
when I was drunk
or junk nodding.
Sometimes,
when the tip
of the cigarette
would hit my dick,
it would jolt me out
of whatever reverie
I was lost in.
Holy shit,
I'd say,
as I jumped up,
Fuck,
I continued,
brushing the ash
from my dick
and thigh, then
light another smoke
and try to get back into it.

Now,
I no longer drink,
or shoot dope,
but the seat remains.
Throw that shit out,
I sometimes say
to myself.
But I don't want to;
I want to remember.
I want to remember
not the misery of a time--
for all time is miserable--
the times of madness
and bliss; the times
where time had no meaning
and passed
unnoticed
especially
by myself.