The Cold Ring

As I sit here
on the lavatory seat
shivering through my winter vest
that I wish I was wearing
in the early hours of the morning,
weary eyed in the lamp light,
wishing that i hadn’t left the window open
or that maybe the seat was made of
something less conductive of cold,
(The cold ring has awoken me)
I remark on all the years of diligence
and effort that went into forming the seat
upon which i sit.
The master piece of masking
the smell
and whisking it all away.
The years of thought and wonder
that went into my toilet
so that I could get intestinal cancer
from pooing sitting down.

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