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Can’t Get the Stink Off My Hands

30 Nov
Half-past midnight, I wonder are the oxygen sats
going to sustain life for ten more hours? Better go
over and check this cold November night. 

Walk 
the crunching snow, almost shivering until 
through the door into another warm and toasty
house. Listen if I hear the ragged

wheezing of the bed's occupant. The room
has the overpowering stench of old-person
poo because a rotten Depend 
is packed and leaking.

I consider at that moment, is there poetry in poo?
If I lyricize it in a poem, do I have a potty mouth?
Human excrement and the process of producing it
have been the stuff of humorists since we,

like bears, did it in the woods. But here is a helpless
older person unable to manage the most rudimentary
of self-care. Therefore, it falls to me. I'll spare you
the runny details - or should I? 

Let me assure you, 
I didn't see any humor in it. I was tempted with
anger and impatience. I wiped 
only to be squirted on like endless chocolate
fondue. 

I used half a roll and was up to my elbows
in you-know-what, while the perpetrator rested
comfortably squeezing out more into my waiting
gloved hands. 

He was not a bit thankful for
the necessary but unpleasant ministrations
he was the recipient of.  I have to remember,

we all become
high maintenance at certain junctures
of our short lifespan. 


 
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Posted by on November 30, 2021 in Poetry

 

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