The man who saw things

There was once a man

Who saw things.

Each chilled morning

Upon rising

He would sit upon the throne

And contemplate

The cold white ceramic

Tiles of the bathroom floor

Seeking wisdom in shapes

That would spring into his mind

Suddenly, silently

Like a lonely wild wolf

Sensing primordial prey.

There, in perfect outline

On that floor

Visions of fantastical

Beings would suddenly

Fill his mind

As he gazed,

Still only half awake

And waiting patiently for the

Perfectly shaped turds

To plop into the waiting bowl.

A goblin here

And over there a strange

Pig-like dog with a grin.

A woman’s face.

And perhaps an airplane.

Or a faery castle.

Each vision formed by dirt

Deposited on the tile

Because of his reluctance

To clean the bathroom,

Despite unending exhortations

By his patient wife

To get his shit together!

His oracle of dirt

Better than television.

Any day.

Did he ever marvel

At the singular

Uniqueness

Of his gift?

I doubt it.