The Proletariat’s Projectile

In the morning
when dawn breaks,
men will do what men have done
since the beginning time,
rise with skin eager, blood flushed,

thus a jaunt to the john
to relieve themselves of bodily fluid.

For some men,
an awakening will occur
when they observe
their plums dehydrating to prunes
hanging lower
than their proletariat projectile.

It will be a shocking realization,
but sadly,
it is just the beginning
of the geriatric continuum.
Public restrooms expose my mortality,
me the magnificent with my diabetes,
enlarged prostate,
and high blood pressure,
stand quietly dripping in one stall
while in the next stall over,
a Black Adonis is splitting the water
as if he is standing three flights up.
Thunderous, to say the least.

In this insecure agent’s code
of placing bandaids on fragile bones,
is the mortal coil
of anticipating the awaiting nightfall.
Standing in the near past and future
It pisses me off to think, that in the end,
I must adhere to life’s abracadabra,
alakazam, hocus pocus,
losing focus, foolishly dreaming
I could alter the world, before the world altered me