by Maurine Meleck
Nobody wants to read a poem about shitholes.
I will be called a fake poet, a charlatan,
an impostor trying to imitate real life.
Nevertheless, when nature calls we must
answer its whistle, its plea, its song.
Years ago, backpacking through Europe,
I was able to use the real shitholes
at the youth hostels I frequented,
holes in the ground where one actually
dumps one's shit. Perhaps that conjures
up foul odors or visions of shit and miss
on your white sneakers. It looks nothing
like a gold-plated toilet at the Ritz
with a self flushing mechanism or smell
like a stroll through a flowered nature trail.
Never underestimate a true shithole
as it can be hidden beneath a garden of roses,
but all you have to do is kick away the dirt.
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I will be called a fake poet, a charlatan,
an impostor trying to imitate real life.
Nevertheless, when nature calls we must
answer its whistle, its plea, its song.
Years ago, backpacking through Europe,
I was able to use the real shitholes
at the youth hostels I frequented,
holes in the ground where one actually
dumps one's shit. Perhaps that conjures
up foul odors or visions of shit and miss
on your white sneakers. It looks nothing
like a gold-plated toilet at the Ritz
with a self flushing mechanism or smell
like a stroll through a flowered nature trail.
Never underestimate a true shithole
as it can be hidden beneath a garden of roses,
but all you have to do is kick away the dirt.
Maurine Meleck has published poetry in numerous journals and anthologies including Luna Negra, Calliope, and Oasis. Her poems appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume 1, South Carolina. She authored a chapter of poetry titled "Song of Sweetwater" in the book Revolutionary Grandparents. She lives in Florida with her autistic grandson, whom she has raised.
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