Portrait

Portrait
A man has jimmied
open the door of the
janitors’ supply closet
in the men’s room.

A bottle of the blue stuff is missing.

The man
hunched
over one of the sinks,
scrubbing

the way a meth-head
might clean house

or an O.C.
checks and rechecks
door locks

frantic.

He’s scrubbing
because before this
he shit himself and
now it’s time
to deal with stains
to deal with odors
to deal with
one’s nagging humility.

The look on his face is
that of pure, fucking, torture.

Enough to make one wonder
whether it’s most appropriate to

laugh,

cry,

or vomit.