is symbolic of a bum.
The emotions pile in landfill,
packing, stacking senses numb.
And when we die where do we go?
Splashing Heaven's pool?
Waiting and dissolving on the rim a saintly stool?
Or snapping in mid-crapping,
some half-reincarnated?
Not done with life, death sends you back,
merely constipated?
Or even worse: ceramic hearses
curse you down with Flush of Hell.
And like a big old backed-up poo,
compact with wisdom in my age,
a reeking block, I stop to think:
"I'm sitting on the sink."