Wynyard station mens' room
I entered the toilet
at Wynyard station,
observing all the rituals.
Don't stand too close,
don't let your eyes wander,
get a corner position
if possible to guard
from prying eyes.
As I turned from my business
to wash my hands
I was startled to see
beneath a cubicle door
two feet in lace up boots,
naked legs, no pants,
and between the feet were
three things.
A pile of toilet paper
piled high
in layers of
lessening width
like the adornments
on an extravagent
continental cake.
On the peak of this pile was a
syringe, and
beneath the pile
grew a pool
of blood
rich and red,
an ever increasing
Rorschach blot
of primary colour,
three dimensional,
a sculpture,
but the most
startling thing of
all was that no one did
anything, just washed
their hands and left.
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