Toilet Paper Invective with Self-Flagellation

By Marcus Wicker

Toilet paper takes center stage amid coronavirus outbreak. Be thankful we no longer use corncobs and rope ends.
—Washington Post

Some of  you future motherfuckers oughta be
ashamed about the state of your ply count.

Ol’ hologram square, skid tread-
bare, pressed-dandelion-dust-on-a-roll-having

jokers. Bet you’re allowed to have company over.
For shit’s sake, fam. What you know about Chanel

Cottonelle? Perfumed & powdered
as your Great Aunt Merle. Sounding like a Sunday

summer trolley unspooling, yawning along Prairieside.
More than any well-armed spice rack or herb garden,

elite TP soothes ennui. Scoff  if you want
but it worked for me. Way back, before the virus.

Perhaps, secure in your weekly haul of oatmeal
& toilet bowl cleaner, dear reader, you will see this

& feel like 2020 Twitter user
Ant_the_Champ3:16, who famously wrote:

&  for everyone who missed the toilet paper rush;
cannot one just  jump thine  fonky ass in the shower

right quick?!   Valid question. Latecomer,
during the recession of ’08, dad’s nest egg

crashed, mom’s job went. Vanished
without warning. No notice. I was comfy

as you, off  to grad school. Insulated
from worry & blame. Subsisting on

Slurpees, popcorn, licorice rope. Writing
important things about Flava Flav.

From an apocalyptic lens, I suppose
I have always been a little Icarus—

firstborn son who saw sun in his reflection.
As if, by studying light, inside an eclipse,

I might touch a magical push-button switch
that would handsomely reward my hubris.

It seems like every few years I’m moving
somewhere. Usually south, in pursuit of the

“next big test,” next job title, next for what?
A couple of   bumps in my FICO score?

Another book, more air between us?
Maybe I could have helped, stuck around.

Maybe I should have kept slinging
Cadillac engines. Should have oiled the invisible

door hinge that swings uneasy, between me &
most of my loves. There’s a 6-foot gap

betwixt guilt &  grief that’s viewable only by
forensics. You’ve got to scald it, shame.

Scour the stain with steel wool pads & a high-
power microscope. Everybody I know wants

to score a quick fix for the escalating problem
of  closeness. Suddenly, everyone wants to leave

&  love &  live like they’ve been paying attention.

Source: Poetry (December 2020)