We walk into my padded room
and – yes – there is the pachyderm.
Of course it’s there, all grey and trunky!
‘But what the heck is smelling funky
from that corner?’, folk exclaim
as they exit, in disdain.
I stay perched upon the stool –
I will not run, or lose my cool.
I’m well aware that the steaming stench
makes teeth and hands and buttocks clench –
for fear of clearing up the mess,
for fear of what shit’s in their heads.
Out in the garden, folk relax,
and smell the roses, just kick back.
They may poo-poo my hefty creature
and be repelled by its excretia;
But the soil out here is fertile now
after years of work with my compost, and my trowel.