Just a little exercise to see what I do,
I’m going the bathroom to write about poo.
I’ve fluffy white paper that floats from the wall.
And a sink nearby, in case I fall.
In a window with shutters I control the scene.
But the stench still oozes in-between.
There’s a mirror that magically hangs above.
It’s never quite straight, much like love.
The image’s the same no matter the tilt.
It tells no lies or feels no guilt.
I’ll wipe the smudges, the exercise through.
I passed the test but slipped in do.