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When the bathroom calls your name

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I was walking in a elegant road in Westchester and a Church let me in. It wasn't Sunday, but it inspired this poem.

I had cycled to Upper Montclair
It was humid, hot, smoke in the air.
I was sweaty, and smelled of Deet
circles under my eyes, and I was beat.

It was Sunday, I'm agnostic, or I'd be in church
Anyway, my state flipped to desperate search
I went to the gas station, to the staff I made a plea
I said "Do you have a bathroom; this is an emergency."

The owner said "sorry, not for your kind."
So I pedaled off, nearly out of my mind.
I saw a port-o-potty, with a lock on the door
Seemed to defeat the purpose, what it's made for.

A drug store was open, I gave a sigh of relief
But the bathroom was out of order, this was beyond belief.
I scanned the trees, but each patch of green
Had a house, a dog, or a camera unseen.

(chorus)
When nature calls, on a Sunday morn
You forget the rose and feel the thorn.
It isn’t just pain—it’s a primal shame,
When the bathroom calls you by your name.

Finally, I rode my bicycle through church doors
The crowd looked shocked, but when it rains, it pours.
The priest pointed out the restroom, I just made it there
And thanked heaven for religion in Upper Montclair.

I had made my fortune shorting the Lebanese pound
So I gave ten thousand dollars to each parishioner, shock all around
Shook every hand, then rolled out of there,
The faithful will remember that day in Montclair.

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