Down I looked, wetness found, frowned at el Piso
Mojado* sign and a yellowish swirl.
Bright lime not the color of this “piscina”**
Moving in micturition-maelstrom whirls.

Brackish this blight flooding floor of cantina;
Icky this sea. . .me, glad in I ain’t fell.
The sump is deep, and with flecks it is laden. . .
Can’t jump across this urinary well.

That night a wild drunk cowboy there’d been,
Wildly whizzed, wetting within
Splashing, uncaring,
His drinks were repairing
To form a piscina
That swirled toward the rug.

So in caution I

Sashayed to right of this sea that he’d made in
Here and was languishing there on the floor.
A challenging stroll to wade through to find a seat;
The stagnant pool made a sight most folks abhor.

I would have to guess, he stood there in silence,
Penis astream like a river that runs.
No doubt, thoughts raced through his mind as he stood there.
Why is it that some folks the restroom shun?

Suddenly to the cocina*** it ran
As to the shore runs the tide.
They’ll need a sump pump
’ least it ain’t a plump dump,
But I will not snack on a sodden side.

Just aghast was I

At the sight of this wet—no, drenched!—el piso,
Which made me think of Zappa’s “yellow snow.”

Grande el piso made the patrons mirthless;
Yellow made them of fellowship bereft,
Pissed at the schlong that was whipped out and made in
This restaurant such a drench-cum-stench mess.

They sidled off and away they did go—
The problem: how to depart?
They’d have to borrow, some waders, PFDs****
Or hope they, like Moses, could make “waters” part.

I wish there were a

Tall hill to climb overlooking el piso;
I could see ochre piscina below.
It is so wrong to push one’s urine outward
And then to fill the cantina. . .no-no!

Off to my right I see five drowning chowboys;
They’ve been swept into liquid on the floor.
Down they go, round they go, the vortex vexing—
I believe of them we will see no more.

I bid these fellows so long as they squeal;
It’s deep and they churn in the tide.
Though they are trying to refrain from gargles,
They wish it were beer, and then they’d abide.

Then the front door

Of the cantina opens up and the swollen
Body of liquid flows fast to the west.
What I see is not just a Class I riffle—
Out to the street runs the tide in a crest.

No one is croaked there; piscina ain’t drowned me. . .
Remains a creek where a sea once did lie.
“Gracias!” we scream, unharmed on the dry floor.
Please do not piss in cantinas, you guys!


*wet floor
**swimming pool
***kitchen
***personal flotation device