Stall

The music is a dull vibration

through the plumbing and the tile.

I’m sitting on the lid

just to hear myself think.

Someone used a silver marker

to claim this square of plywood.

The ink bled into the grain,

'I am still here,' it says.

It’s not a threat or a phone number,

just a quiet, metallic fact

staring back at me

while the floorboards shake.