Climb the Ladder
I climb the ladder,
all the way to the top,
and look down on all
the others.
And they strain their eyes
to look up at me
saying:
sir, sir,
what are you doing
pulling down your pants
like that,
sir, sir, sir?
And then I let it come,
washing over all of them,
a red wine-darkened
squid ink
sludge.
Like something shot
out of the spout
of a whale.
Then I decide to climb
back down the ladder,
sans pants,
right down to the
bottom.
Where I sit
without wiping,
drying crusty
in the fading dog drip
sun.