I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my bum. Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.