The Boeing carrying the toilet called

America booms through the clouds like the last trump

of the apocalypse. Churning a few birds

in its turbines and spewing jet-fuel fumes,

as it glides weightily in to land, dropping

balletically through London’s foggy air.

The gilded khazi is shunted around

by turbulence in the hold and slips its ties.

Troubled pets bark and mew. Kids puke in bags

and need use of the restroom and make a mess

 of it. Shit’s sucked by a vacuum out into

midair to fall like gentle rain on England’s green,

pleasant, and parceled lands.    

*

The glistening toilet that

they call America is wheeled out of the plane

as if it were a passenger with special needs,

off through the customs gate at London, Heathrow.

Customs officials cluster around as if

it were some fancy circus animal.

Stumped as to what to do. One of them on a cell

to a superior is seeking advice.

Boss nervous on the other end. She struggles

to explain. “A lot of gold you say?” “Did someone

rob Fort Knox?”

*

The artist arrives and fusses

like a mother over a little child.

One female customs officer laughs out loud.

Sneakily takes a selfie to share the laugh

 at his expense with friends.  

*

“The idea is

to plug it in.” The artist explains. “Plug it,

more like.” Some wag pipes up. Guffaws all round.

Photo by stu_spivack – DSC_0476, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=55387186