Ceramic, beige tiles plaster the floor
connected to two types of walls, both sky-blue.
Number one, drywall—solid and strong.
Number two, cinder blocks—chipped and cracked.
Two twin bowls rest atop the cold tiles,
Each glistening white, with porcelain pride.
Be wary of the power they hold within;
For sitting too long creates a bum leg.
These bowls, they can flush any doubts one may have
‘bout the vortexing power of disappearing crap.
With an aim to release any pressure one feels,
The bowls wipe discomfort from those who draw near.
There are other bowls here, smaller, shorter,
Nestled within stalls of marble counter.
A silver canal extends over each bowl,
Where out flows the streams of pure, clear liquid.
One’s hands are immersed in the whirlpool of water,
To achieve the objective of Angel Soft hands.
The antibacterial cleanser one squirts
Helps remove the curtains of accumulated germs.
One then grabs for the Ultra Soft cloth--
The one that is black, fuzzy, and wet.
Collecting and storing the moisture within,
The cloth is rehung until needed again.
And then they will leave, just like that.
They need to go, go, go,
back to their personal duties.
But they will return; they always do.
For one always answers the bladder call.
