Waiting to Poop
Upstairs, to take a private poop
shy at five, I liked to be alone.
Carelessly I leave the door ajar
as I did with milk, peanut butter and so much more
to startle my mom who always cleaned up.
Poop time was precious,
like a popsicle on a hot summer day
a quiet time inside my mind.
But ooops, someone walks by, the popsicle drops,
my fortress invaded, perhaps a spy.
But they don’t notice me,
as if I never existed or never was.
NEVER WAS! My family without me?
Wow, what a thought. And with that…
Bang — feelings echo and shake my body.
and I see the world is rich without me
and that is OK
as a little-boy-smile hugs my face.
I still couldn’t poop–oh to learn to let go.
But I could see differently, if only for a short while.
So I returned to the pot again and again
hoping to reclaim that feeling, that lightness
but my mind laughs at my childish efforts
like my siblings downstairs fooling around.
For the pleasure of no-me only comes rarely
and always as an uninvited guest.
by Sabio Lantz
Notes: Victoria at d’Verse Poets challenged us to ‘mine our memories’ for inspiration to explore ourselves and deeper truths. This is poetic telling of my actual childhood experience (told here in prose). It is one of my first “mini-deaths“. These mini-deaths and other experiences would later feed my awe-filled understanding of “self” – a sort of (non-theist) mysticism.
Photo Non-credits: By the way, the photo montage is not of me — but I did the photoshopping. I forgot where I found the photos. Sorry.