Fishy

At the end of unexpected waves that send
me stumbling to the privacy
of the cloakroom
I send three circling shakes
down again
and unexpectedly
you dribble out.

Goodness, at thirteen it's sure a shock
of pink tissue, makes me think
of papier mache
boats that sink when pushed
out quick
and reluctantly
are flushed away.

But fishes swim their butterfly strokes
against the flushing tides
of various vents
that ply the nourishing slime
to synthesize
tampons, excrement,
other wasted asides.

Shaken, you climb the dank interior
nestled in crud, borne atop
the rising odour
whose perpetual reminder finds
you stopped
amidst your thoughts
that drag you down.

Condoms come is condoms spent you
seek some purpose in their flow
to travel onwards
goalless - gives them time to
compare notes
build resentment
regroup and reframe.