Crossing The Hall

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 Crossing The Hall
to the common john, yellow
light, white brown‑lit tiles, face
to face with an old wall. How many
before me, standing here pants a bag
zeroing in on this ceramic wall all
bronze green with the passage
and have jiggled flipped and zipped
it all away; a timeless gesture.
Tired, beaten, bent back me
scrubs its hands and lamenting looks
to the scratchy mirror and there
completely unexpected, my face all young
and hopeful, like finding Marian
in the garden mourning the loss of me
before rows of wet blue flowers.