Why I Write in the Bathroom Closet

My sons squabble over checkers,
assigning blame for the missing piece.
Their shrill accusations
ricochet off my kitchen walls.

Slumped on the sofa,
my husband watches war. Grenades
drop through floorboards,
blasting my basement bunker.

On warmer days, I’d slip away,
make a paper nest in dark pines.
But frost glosses my windows
white and closes me inside.

Desperate, I stake claim
to the bathroom closet,
balance notebook on my knees.
With one hand on my pen,
the other on the plunge,
I crouch under the dirty lightbulb,
dare my clan to piss or flush.