I’d like to know who really runs my mind.
Who was it put those sadists on the night desk?
My tortured bladder trunk-calls, “Water-works here Central.
Wake this fella up, toot sweet! I’m bustin!”
But do they wake me up? What do you think?
It’s what they’re waiting for. They rub their hands.
The blighters have me wake in virtual reality.
Wake in an ever changing house that rambles over acres.
And where’s the nearest toilet? No-one’s there to ask.
A million doors to raise my hopes, each turns the knife.
With many labelled ‘TOILET’ but not so.
Their plumbing’s been ripped out. They’re filled with junk.
I’m fed a glimpse of someone entering a far-off corridor.
‘Good! Help at last!’ But gaining on that corner
Just more empty reaches and another million doors.
Then I’m presented with their favourite goad, a working throne.
Glass cubicle. Glass door. Am I that desperate?
My use will cue a flood of crowd-scene extras.
Their common ploy this bringing people out of nowhere.
Sometimes I’ll be caught short near friendly scrub.
No problem you might think. Nobody near to see.
But reach toward my zip and someone just appears.
Some woman! So I scratch my knee and wave and smile
And suffer ’til she’s out of sight then try again.
Those guys upstairs all know my field-mouse shyness,
My late Victorian prudery, my every weakness.
They know I dread the shame brought by incontinence.
It’s in the archives right there at their fingertips.
They know how far to turn the screw—and when,
To spice scenes with despair and cause exquisite pain.