An Ode to my Turk

After months upon months of squatting to pee, I am a master.

I’ve got the technique down,

I know the perfect angle for no splash,

My shoulder is flexible enough to reach behind me for the toilet paper without missing a beat.

I had done my time squatting in the woods on camping trips and hikes.

I saw my first Turkish toilet at Arches National Park, I didn’t use it because I thought it was weird.

Nothing quite like rushing to dig a hole in the woods.

I don’t have to dig a hole in my apartment though, it’s already there.

I have spent countless minutes balancing over porcelain.

Sometimes my feet fall asleep when I’m on there for a minute.

I don’t need my squatty potty, I am in the ultimate position.

My fellow volunteers with westerns always clamor when I say I still have a turk.

“I couldn’t live with that.”

Little do they know, I prefer it.

Where’s the thrill in defying gravity when you’re on a western?

A thousand years of Turkish ingenuity beneath me, connecting me to history every squat.

The Ottomans introduced the turk to Europe,

Maybe I’ll get one installed when I move back to the states.