The porcelain throne

You hear a strange rumble, but not from afar

Is it thunder, you ponder, or someone's broken car?

The rumble repeats, with an abdominal sensation

It's your stomach! And it's making a strange vibration

As the rumbling grows louder in volume and might

Your gut aches with pain, something's not right!

A chill runs through your hunched-over back

Sweat drips off you, your vision turnes black

Waddling duck-like and pale to the nearest wc

Your buttocks clenched hard, but it's no guaranty

Will you reach it in time, or surf the brown tide?

Can you handle the stigma, or will you lose all your pride?

The door opens smoothly and you thank your almighty

Pants are ripped off; the scene is not sightly

What's the cause of this mayhem? What is the source?

Yesterday's diet? The political discourse?

No matter the reason, the relief feels divine

How could such pain be of god's great design?

Ruminating life's mysteries, you look to your left.

A new emotional state rises; you're feeling bereft.

A carton roll hangs on the hook beside your knee

Remnants of paper is all that you can see

Panic enthralls you the second time that day

Hope shines eternal - yet light will also decay

Preparing to call for extra supplies

A cabinet askew reveals a great surprise

Within arm's length reach when you lift your left cheek

Three rolls were hidden by a door o-so-sleek

You fiddle with the roll, the first tissue broken

Your legs falling asleep, but your spirit has awoken

Poor and rich alike, we do what must be done

A clean and fresh behind is a right for everyone

Fully clothed you now stand by the sink

Wet hands. soap. rub. You don't have to think

A good rinse later, you are all free to leave

There is no boundaries to what you now can achieve

And when the need arises the next time around

The restroom welcomes both silence and sound

Do what you must, and feel no shame

The restroom knows no one by their name