I dislike rising from my bed at 3 AM,
Descending the ladder stair and out the door,
Stumbling the frozen ground to the outhouse.
Nothing fills me with greater foreboding
Than leaving the warmth of my blankets
For the nitrogen vice artic air,
Under the winter sky pierced with the million pinholes
Of blue and yellow and green ice diamond stars.
Nobody can convince me,
Neither my wife nor daughter,
Neither my sons or my sister,
Neither friends or brothers in law,
Neither the Dali Lama or the Prime Minister,
That having a pee can for such occasions
Is anything but civilized, respectable remedy for an aging bladder
And the unbreakable habit of drinking a gallon of tea in the evening.
None of the societal fetishes for clean porcelain and running water,
For the odours of Vim and Mr Clean,
Can dint the pleasure I take unscrewing the lid of my tobacco can,
Kneeing at the side of my bed in a sacramental manner
And filling that smelly can with warm fresh urine,
Rising in the air the pungent but not unpleasant smell
Of protein or uric acid or whatever it is that piss contains.
Nobody can tell me that climbing back into bed,
Relieved like a great athlete might be relieved
After a successful performance,
Nobody can tell me that this is not sweet and elegant and wonderful
And, on the whole, superior to the so called intellectual or spiritual epiphanies.