There was a time when a phantom
had struck the bathrooms at work
and left his fecal signature along
the toilet, the walls, and the floor.
At first we laughed and then we gagged
and then we sort of marveled at
the way he was able to shit on the
ceiling of the bathroom.
We waited by the bathroom door
every morning for a glimpse at
the phantom shitter, but he eluded us.
The shit-astrophe grew daily
becoming more pronounced like
an artist does when he dedicates
himself to his craft.
One afternoon I was in the stall
to the left, texting on my phone—
I heard it,
I heard the phantom-shitting live!
Like an anal volcano belching
from beneath the Earth’s crust, the stall
rumbled and shook as a low groan
crept through the now vile air.
I finished up and escaped from the stall
only to have the stall next to me open-
a massive man as thick as a Red Oak tree
wobbled from the stall and gave me a nod.
His art was already dripping onto the floor.
I said “You are the phantom shitter!”
He grinned and said, “Sometimes it is just fun
to fuck shit up”