Room #4157

Living in code blue, without a pot to piddle in.
Man’s largest toilet, dotted by the Dogwood, idles
Outside with shaken leaves made for wiping.
I can’t race to the wilderness. I can’t jog. I surely can’t fly.
The loss confounds my mind. So, I’ll stud my eyebrow with a

Hobnail. The transformation is quite becoming.
These four white walls are made for breaking down.
I never knew how to crack up before this accidental discovery.
Smash, teeter, and fall, and all the doctors couldn’t put it
Back together again. Maybe a pill? A blue one, of course!

It tastes like a stale peppermint with a chalky aftertaste.
Where are my house slippers? The ones you bought for my visit?
Sideways and up your rump roast, most likely, so I shall not
Race into the wilderness. I still have my broken sole -
Now fire poker red, and dripping, mimicking a leaky spout.

It’s soon to be the great Niagara! Dogcatcher! Code red!
I’m beginning to itch forth another solution for the heartache -
You must excavate the pain, then suture up the buttercup,
Or all the blood will drain to my feet. Tell me, then.
How will I run? How will I jog? How, ever will I fly?