The restroom door at the art
museum reads “omen.”
With a prickle of superstition
I enter the oracle: charcoal gray
floors, stainless steel doors, white
tile walls—Edward Hopper
starkness, a backdrop for hard truth.
Finding myself alone, I take my
time looking. I count the stalls:
14—surely a good sign?
Yet what about the 13 empty
capsules? Exiting my stall,
I step into the bright
light of revelation, my red
jacket, even my pale flesh
a jolt of color in the mirror.
Faucets and paper towels
power themselves.
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