It's disgusting
in there.

So disgusting
I get in and get out,
and have my deflector shields up
the whole time.

So disgusting
I occupy
the smallest amount of space possible
in this smallest place imaginable
and fuzz out the fuzz
and the dirt
and the crud
and the rest of the unmentionable detritus
from even the corners
of my peripheral vision.

So disgusting
I cannot see
how disgusting it is
until company is coming
and I see it through their eyes
and am moved to give
the most convenient surfaces
a quick flick of the sponge
and light a few votives
in the vain hope that their eyesight
is good enough
to do their business
by candlelight.

On this one day, though,
it is not the bathroom
that is disgusting,
it is me.

And I am so disgusting
I can take neither of us
one minute longer,
and attack us both
in a frenzy of Comet
and old kitchen sponges
and elbow grease.

It is disgusting.
And hateful.
And bo-ring.

And it goes on and on
until it kind of
gets interesting.

And it goes on a little further
until it
and I
are not only not disgusting
but actually inspiring.

A crumbling old
mid-century wreck,
patched over in the broken spots,
most definitely the worse for wear,
as far from modern
and sleek
and elegant
as you can imagine,
inspiring.

And the bathroom
ain't bad
either.

xxx
c

This poem was inspired by my friend Gretchen Rubin's 6 tips on dealing with boredom, specifically, #2, which outlined Diane Arbus's method.

Image by via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.