Toilet Brush

There was a two-pronged toilet brush hanging from the rack.

I had borrowed it from Mr. Jimmy and he wanted it back.

These are the times that vex our souls and hearts.

As we stand on the edge of oblivion with many broken parts.

Love and war, grease and sand, fleeing monkeys, fat-soaked veins.

We stand up for old ladies, get jostled around, and endure the pains.

Now I’m at the Florida beach basking in the warm winter sun.

I burned down my house in New York, and right now I’m having fun.

Toilets brushes.

Sweet-Songed thrushes.

They’re all the same.

They should be matted together and share a gilded frame.