I tinkle far too often, especially now:
in coffee mugs, glass tumblers, beer cans,
soda bottles, brandy snifters, red solo cups
on my nightstand. Emptied eventually.
Usually a day. Two at most. Besides,
I keep Resolve carpet cleaner
bedside in case of a spill. Or
the more frequent drop or two
from when I attempt a beer can or soda bottle
instead of a cup because all are full.
I’m not saying that I’ve never dipped a finger
and licked to see if it was sweet,
like a medieval doctor testing for diabetes.
He had diabetes; I am pre-pre-diabetic.
Sometimes I want to chop my tallywhacker off.
I’d like a tube to deposit urine into a much bigger bag
than my bladder could ever even aspire to be.
It’s more realistic than getting a room with a toilet;
I lack the autonomy.
Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe it isn’t.
I wonder if the white porcelain mugs will yellow.
Towards his end, my father—a diuretic-prescribed fellow,
pissed frequently in plastic urinals which I would
sometimes begrudgingly empty,
but mostly pass-off to my bum of a tenant of a friend.
I recycled those urinals. My bad.