The Outhouse

Sitting around the cabin in the warm sun

carefully peeling the labels from frosted

moist stubby beer bottles as if divine

intervention will reverse time making us

even younger than today with no plans

because it is—the long weekend.

Parked up on the hill my Mustang gleams

in the sun. In my chair, legs crossed at the

ankles, my back to the well beaten path .

At 10am with two beers already gone and

not one cooperative label .

The cabin with no plumbing never subject to

demands. At the opposite end of a beaten path

leads to a throne encased in a rustic wooden

structure. A half-moon cut into its door to vent.