I have a bladder full of urgency, but Amishmen are every where, grinders shooting sparks and starting fires in the straw. Usual piss spots are being traipsed across by young men whose beards, suspenders, and worth ethics put hipsters to shame, but I’m in dire straits. My urethra is twisted up like a dehydrated earthworm when I give in at an intersection of wall and silo, hoping for thirty seconds. He walks around the corner with a clipboard and comes up short when he sees me squatting. Our eyes connect, each measuring the other’s loss of modesty.