ON MY GOOD DAYS

I slurp my coffee with a big plate
of eggs, bacon and toast with jam.
Not long after that,
the poetry begins to flow effortless,
along with the shit. My bowels seem
so well connected of an instrument
on my good days— and bad.
So while you thumb through my book—
I want you to consider
that for each page inked by poetry,
there was probably seven or ten
crap splotched squares of Charmin.
This one is especially of no exception.
In fact, I’ll be right back.