Have you ever had a pressing need to poo

privately - politely - any hole will do?

At last – reprieve! - but the door won't latch

and it swings back and forth back and forth

until you must ignore it to get on with business?

 

Just as you drop your drawers with sycophant relief

someone sits beside you upon a velvet cushion

like those in a gaudy theatre and starts to make small talk

very touchy-feely with a white-gloved hand?

 

Then - a posh crowd strolls by  all stiff ties and bulging bosoms

with hor d'oerves and cocktails

certainly discussing mighty matters as they run the world?

They will see you enthroned - smell your stinky poo -

AND YOU TOTALLY KNOW: THE WHOLE WORLD IS OUT TO GET YOU!

mean – unfair– and just plain NASTY.

 

But when humiliation seems entire -

you realize - somehow – that all is not as it seems:

there really is no pungent odour -

the chatter is like TV on mute -

you can't actually feel those fingers on your thigh -

and finally you wise up:  'OK! JOKE'S OVER! 

 

Your Dream bows out almost gagging with glee.

But the deed is dood:

Analysis must hoe its furrow

looking for symbols from long- buried memories

of your convoluted past, and concludes:

'Food and poo are requisites of life

But privacy was never promised.'

Or summat like that.

I refuse to pursue it further

Freud or no Freud.

There is a limit to what you want to know.

 

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas, March 2016