Tobacco Can

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.