poop
remember, he told me, that when I was 6 or
years old my mother was always taking me
to the doctor and saying, “he hasn’t pooped.”
she was always asking me, “have you
pooped?”
seemed to be her favorite question.
and, of course, I couldn’t lie, I had real problems
pooping.
was all knotted up inside.
my parents did that to me.
looked at those huge beings, my father,
my mother, and they seemed really stupid.
sometimes I thought they were just pretending
to be stupid because nobody could really be that
stupid.
but they weren’t pretending.
they had me all knotted up inside like a pretzel.
mean, I had to live with them, they told
me what to do and how to do it and when.
they fed, housed and clothed me.
and worst of all, there was no other place for
me to go, no other choice:
had to stay with them.
mean, I didn’t know much at that age
but I could sense that they were lumps
of flesh and little else.
dinnertime was the worst, a nightmare
of slurps, spittle and idiotic conversation.
looked straight down at my plate and tried
to swallow my food but
all turned to glue inside.
couldn’t digest my parents or the food.
that must have been it, for it was hell for me
to poop.
have you pooped?”
and there I’d be in the doctor’s office once again.
he had a little more sense than my parents but
not much.
well, well, my little man, so you haven’t pooped?”
he was fat with bad breath and body odor and
had a pocket watch with a large gold chain
that dangled across his gut.
thought, I bet he poops a load.
and I looked at my mother.
she had large buttocks,
could picture her on the toilet,
sitting there a little cross-eyed, pooping.
she was so placid, so
like a pigeon.
poopers both, I knew it in my heart.
disgusting people.
well, little man, you just can’t poop,
huh?”
he mad e a little joke of it: he could,
she could, the world could.
couldn’t.
well, now, we’re going to give you
these pills.
and if they don’t work, then guess
what?”
didn’t answer.
come on, little man, tell me.”
all right, I decided to say it.
wanted to get out of there:
an enema.”
an enema,” he smiled.
then he turned to my mother.
and are you all right, dear?”
oh, I’m fine, doctor!”
sure she was.
she pooped whenever she wanted.
then we would leave the office.
isn’t the doctor a nice man?”
no answer from me.
isn’t he?”
yes.”
but in my mind I changed it to, yes,
he can poop.
he looked like a poop.
the whole world pooped while I
was knotted up inside like a pretzel.
then we would walk out on the street
and I would look at the people passing
and all the people had behinds.
that’s all I ever noticed,” he told me,
it was horrible.”
we must have had similar
childhoods,” I said.
somehow, that doesn’t help at all,”
he said.
we’ve both got to get over this
thing,” I said.
I’m trying,” he
answered.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
