I can hear your fecally-lubricated sphincter pucker
and relax back open.
And I can hear gas
leak from your intestines.
Sometimes while scooping Pablo's litter,
she interestedly climbs in,
digs to plastic bedrock,
and spreads her knees wide while relieving the pressure.
I pet her until she's done.
Sometimes I sit with my legs together,
with my pants still above my knees,
to see how the process alters.
To see how waste leaks out differently.
More begrudgingly.
But now, at the mirror at the sink,
I see clearly through the space the stall door doesn't cover
that you are free as Pablo.
But don't worry.
I will not pet you.
