Inventory of the Stall

The tile is a yellowing, clinical white,

scored by decades of industrial bleach.

I’m holding my breath so the boots in the next stall

don’t hear the hitch in my chest.

Taped to the metal, a scrap of rough towel

bears a map drawn in leaking blue ink.

The lines bleed into the pulp,

shaky streets and a heavy 'X'

right where I used to sleep.

I wonder if the person who marked it

is the one currently sighing through the partition,

or if we are all just haunting

the same square foot of geography.