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An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

 


An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER

 

I love my toothbrush,

the circular motion,

up and down,

round and round.

 

Is it because I’m left-handed,

or right-handed?

I put it to the left,

look in the mirror,

rub my gum more than my tooth.

One side sore,

one side unclean.



I loathe toothpaste.

I hate it.

I hate this smile.

I hate the taste.



But I love clean teeth—

the touch of the tongue

across the front,

smooth,

shining.



Every three weeks,

my sore gum returns.

I forget what I’m doing,

leave it whirling,

mindless chore.



I love my toothbrush.

I love clean teeth.

I loathe my sore gum.



It’s a pattern I repeat,

monthly,

weekly,

over-brushed,

sore gum.



When I’m old,

really old,

I won’t brush my teeth.

Fifty years, twice a day,

since I was nine or ten.



Don’t get me started on

toothpicks,

tape,

wax,

gaps.



But when I’m seventy-five—

no more.

I’ll rub the taste

on the front teeth,

pretend I’ve done the job.



No more sore gum. No more.

It’s a job you have to do.

It’s a job I hate to do.

I’ll be glad when I’m done.


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