Oh glorious cathedral of questionable hygiene,

where the floor glistens

with substances I refuse to identify,

and the toilet paper

is thinner than my will to live.

How your automatic flush

fires before I’m even finished,

spraying me with the holy water of regret.

Blessed be the motion-sensor sink,

which turns on for exactly 0.3 seconds

and then gives up on me

like my high school math teacher.

Your hand dryers,

those jet engines of lukewarm disappointment,

blow my skin gently into the next zip code

while still leaving my hands wetter than my eyes

after watching Marley & Me.

Oh, the graffiti wisdom on your stall walls—

poems about love,

political rants,

and one poorly drawn dinosaur

that somehow judges me harder than my own mother.

And your smell—

a complex bouquet of bleach, mystery soup,

and the ghost of a burrito eaten in 1997.

Yet still,

when desperation calls

and bladder trumps pride,

I return to you,

kneeling like a medieval knight before a very gross throne,

praying that the seat cover doesn’t slide off

just as I sit down.

Public restroom,

you are my shame,

my salvation,

and my tetanus shot waiting to happen.