Throughout my ceiling-staring night,
I heard on every washroom trip
A fellow-flusher up a floor.
It seemed they heard my gurgling chords
Erupting in the echo bowl
And rushed to join the denouement.
Perhaps, with every press, they meant
They’ve stared into my staring eyes
Through flooring tiles, concrete, and more.
Or, maybe they’re just as lost.
And look to me for fellowship.
Perhaps, tonight I’ll press their bell.