I ape in gold a simply plumbed appliance

designed for all to use. I craft in gold

a simple convenience that can be seen

as art. I play at the boundaries that

overflow my bounds. I turn the fountain

of Duchamp upon its head, posing as precious

artwork in the lavatory, not latrine

gatecrashing the posh museum displays.

Am I more plumbing than artwork; more plumber

than plumbed? It’s hard to tell. I know, however,

that it’s all about me. And, as gold tells:

this no standard bog. Water comes in

and out of the closet. But I remain.

Oz-like, behind the curtain. It’s safer,

more profitable to keep it that way.