my dad’s study hall growing up
& my reading nook now–
because going to the bathroom is boring.
If I want to escape with chocolate
without having to share
or wax my underarms (armpits sound nasty)
without an audience,
I go (not skip) to the loo,
leaving evidence of the latter
in the lavender-scented trashbags as proof to my husband
that women have a higher tolerance for pain.
I can soak for an hour,
brainstorming so hard,
you can hear the thunder & see the lightning
if you look & listen close enough,
but don’t get too close
unless I need you to bring me my tweezers.