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I share a bathroom with a

Lion tamer who lives down the hall.

One room.

It's not a small bathroom per say

But it is just one room.

We pass the time while shitting by writing the names

Of millionaires and famous people

On toilet paper.

Anyone really.

An historical figure, the lastest craze,

They all become notes on little squares

For the two of us to read.

We ask each other the big questions, too.

Questions like if you would marry

This or that famous dead person if they were alive today.  Or,

If hell is the world's suffering

What happens to it after revelations?

Or, have you noticed that God's hand

Writes the best Haiku's,

The most profound messages imaginable

And with an economy of space?

Like, cut the kids in half, for example.

We've passed anything and everything

Back and forth over the years.

I've never met him, this man

I share a bathroom with.

The roar of his lions is enough for me.

I hear stories.

I hear that he's become something of a media personality.

That's he's very successful.

That he has his hands full.

That he's balancing a lot but

Very curious in what I've been up to.

We share one bathroom

So of course we grate on each other's nerves.

I think I've called him damn near every name in the book.

I know he's called me a few.

To sum it up his shit stinks and he's in denial.

Or the other way around

Given the circumstances.

No lie.  Every name in the book.

But he hasn't written in a while.

I can feel myself dying a little.

Days have gone by, no,

Weeks.  I think maybe a month.

Last night I broke the toilet lid on purpose.

The bastard's killing me with silence.

I've decided to do something drastic.

I'm going to knock on his door down the hall.

To hell with the lions.

No, I'm not going to do that, but something.

I have to.  I have no other choice.

I'm going to knock on his door and confront him

Before he moves out, if he's moving out.

I admit it, I need him.

Not like a pet or even 

A friend.

Just someone, something

I can't live without.

There are other, more inconsequential note passers

But it's not the same.

They have nothing to say worth listening to and they know it.

At best it's a glib insult.  To which I reply,

Good job, you found the barrel.

But I can't move out of this place.

I'm going to knock.

It's all very simple.

You see, he's a god

And I'm very constipated.

That's what his last note said to me in fact.

You're a god.

I haven't had the chance to say ditto.

Or that my compass,

My order for space,

Depends upon him.