Ode to the Third Stall

O grey cubicle, neutral walls enfolding,
swinging wooden door unoccupied!
Neglected, your paper supply lingers, that
rolling dispenser hanging loosely from the wall.
You stand at such a perfect distance:
no first stall, vomiter's release,
no favored second child,
but still no unwanted fourth, that no-man's land
beyond recall.

O blank space, empty cell!
Cloistered my tears are thrown in muffled accord
upon calm taupe tiles,
peeled as paint in that dingy space.

Third stall, you are sanctuary, you are hope!
Your bespattered throne stands enshrined, ignored,
for how the flush throws water upon the seat:
distasteful! And so avoided,
rejected!
Thus you are mine, and truly
I am yours.