Such moments can be indebted to self-
reflection: a birth, a loss, this potential
new love, cross-legged, feet from this
bathroom, deaf to my tract; yet vitality
pervades for both of us, at this age, this
twenty-three, when no one has cirrhosis
and smokers’ skin glows just as radiant
as tabloid models’: the young, the less young.
Meanwhile, I am tackling mortality, these
churning questions, if losing control
of my bowels so early speaks disaster.
I want to singe my name into this stall, some-
thing crass to act as my epitaph. I draw
from drawn demotics, graffiti-tagged
highway walls, desk-etched expletives,
hearts in trees with four initials, two adjacent,
welded together, eternally, or until chopped,
manufactured for a new door, a new
canvas to be marred with a mark
of yeah, I’ll be here forever. Call me.
Scott Wordsman is an MFA candidate at William Paterson University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Main Street Rag, Slipstream Press, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and others. He lives in New Jersey.