I can’t recall the place

In the most spacious private stall,
In a public bathroom I stumbled
Into, in a bar – I was already drunk
When I entered – graffiti and stickers
And filth everywhere, I regard the
Toilet, what the French call “la
Toilette”, and drop trou,
I have a seat, looking
Around, drunk and languid, I make
A quick decision, and to the sounds
Of a gentleman urinating and
Then washing his hands,
I rub myself tenderly, imagining
The man whose buttocks warmed
The porcelain ring beneath me,
Not really all that long ago.

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