A junkie once shot up
in my bathroom.
It was college so there
were stalls, just two.

He asked if he could
use the spoon I'd brought
from home, the one
spoon in the room.
I couldn't refuse.

A clatter of metal
on stone came from
across the hall. And
though I didn't hear
a plopping, I worried
that he'd dropped
my spoon in the toilet.

I was sure
he'd flush it down
not fish it out.

© 2004, Amy Hart.