Ode To An Antique Commode
by G.S. Allen

Where I had sat mine own self

and whiled away the time

with magazine, book or catalogue

label of a shampoo bottle or cologne

or simply to ponder casually

when better times were known

I endeavored to think upon

the history of my commode

Had it always here reigned supreme

over tub and mirror and lavatory

laying claim to hydraulic superiority

encircling intimacy and a touch of chrome?

Or was it a neglected ceramic orphan

once rudely drug along the floor

of some crumbling tenement

and trucked about the city streets

to suffer an embarrassment

privy only to a porcelain crapper?

Then planted upon my floor and bolted

a few inconvenient inches from the door

to flush and swirl and continue running

of course, forevermore

Perhaps some famous person

once sat upon this throne

and a famous thought conceived

in the sanctuary of intermittent silence

at one, entranced, relieved

Would that this conical basin

could intone as a Victrola’s horn

and transmit the secrets it has borne

like the Delphic oracle from out its fissure

prophesied in a muffled tone

as from a mouth stopped up with tissue

It pains me to think who came before

and sat behind a bolted door

in cantankerous reverie

upon this monument of virgin white

that stubbed the toes and shins

of those seeking recovery by night

Alas, ’tis merely a commode

no poet could personify

or playwright weave into his script

like some deus ex machina

that descends from overhead

’Tis simply a commode

a civilized commodity

the common denominator

of a universal necessity

impartial to the flatulent

the wretchings of the drunken wretched

the kidney tapper, the loaf maker

the plumber who clears its throat

and the little commercial man

in the little boat