As I Brush My Teeth

it is not the sensitive teeth
it is the sensitivity of the soul
listening to the rhythmic brushing
the sound of too much repetition
the cycles of up and down
the softness of the gum
the whitening of the dentin
the gargle and the flushing
inside the indifference of the
faucet catching all that you give
the bathroom that
persists in its inanimate
presence.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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