I lifted down the sole toothpaste, discovering it on a stony shelf,
whose corners were the growing colony of experienced, strong cobwebs
It held systematic and partly disordered things, but all unused, all of use, all packed, intact,
except for one–
the eraser of dirt on teeth
My hands knew their mission the eyes were concentrated the brain was the guide
and the mind was patient and quiet
The bent Atlas and the helpless Prometheus mirrored on the slim, torn tube;
And I confirmed the residue with dexterous squeezing,
saving the minutest of protruding particle.
The pre-search reason did make me irk: the teeth won’t fall, come on, I thought, and your breath is not too bad!
But perhaps, the farsighted imagination
of a short supply in plane, the logic of a sudden need or the anxiety of closeness of strangers-
the prospective friends-
justified the frantic search, and of the paste he didn’t mind the extreme littleness. I got it why sometimes pretty, fresh ladies sit idle; experienced ones make it.