Ladies room

White porcelain, gleaming tile floors,
the smell of solvents prickling the eyes,
a reflective door without a fingerprint,
and below it, three sets of feet, a pair
of sneakers dangling high, hanging pants,
high heels in the middle, back to the door,
and squeezed in somehow, another
sneaker of another little boy
balancing on one foot.
“Espera, don’t touch anything. Don’t
touch anything. Everything
is dirty.” A bigger boy, looking
at the floor, stands by the sink
holding four coats, staying clean.

I have written a surprising amount about bathrooms. I rewrote this old poem for the dVerse prompt.