There was the smell, constant,
that spun with the lightning and rain:
a mixture of dandelions and worms.
was like a great flood. Four walls, one little
a toilet that leaked, water spewing everywhere.
It sat on the edge of a terrain,
looking down into a small animal graveyard in
Southern Africa until a hurricane blew it away.
All that remained was a roll
of wet paper towel
and a newspaper from 1979.
Even the old man who used it was gone.
The last time they saw him he was
humming a tune as he strolled down
the path towards the outhouse,
a magazine tucked under one arm.
He didn't seem to mind the rain
-Published in Whistling Shade Magazine