Elegy of a Toothbrush

My toothbrush sweeps the crumbs of eternity out of the crevices of my teeth. He sweeps forever against the surface stains, yet cannot penetrate them. I hear his quiet cursing from the dark, damp gymnasium. I know he’s been drinking the Listerine he uses to wash the enamel and I don’t blame him.

I could use a battery powered tooth brush, but they’re just robots really. Sure they replace the staff of old, but the drone of them makes my teeth chatter and shatter, I choose the old fashioned mode. Row after row, morning and night, disfigured by the pressures of the job, my toothbrush sweeps on.

One night I heard his sobbing and I knew he knew it was the end. He had pulled some of his own bristles out in one last self-destructive cry for help. So early one morning, I retired him to the paint supply shelf. Now he dips his fingers into all the colours of the rainbow. Now he adds a certain texture to a canvas, as only an old toothbrush can.