He walked through the door smelling like hot piss,
a scent that shot as high as it could rise,
saturating the store with rottenness.
Thus it’s a wonder he didn’t draw in flies
to the establishment. Disturbing staff,
he leaned over the counter, sifting a smell
so harsh that one should engrave an epitaph,
for it reeked as if Death came in to dwell.
Certainly a colostomy pouch gripped
his ribs, providing escape for his trapped waste.
It’s good the staff hushed, halting unkind slipped
remarks; the only wish was for his haste
outdoors after he’d been served. It’s such a shame
that they all felt this way, but what if some
other patrons walked in? None could they blame
but the old man they wished had never come.