The man stands
in front of his bathroom window,
holding the world’s most frizzled toothbrush;
toothbrush with bristles
like an electrocuted tribble.

He keeps
one grey eye
on the house
across the street
and that one window
with a light
that never goes out,
that never casts
any shadow
across drawn, pale,
yellow curtains.

He keeps
his other grey eye
on his toothbrush’s gnarled reflection,
frayed bristles
lighting up
like a fiber-optic tree
with every car
that drives by.

The bristles shift
in color
from ripe banana
to blank paper
to open wound
to healing scar.

He considers
walking
across the street,
knocking
on the door,
inquiring
about that never-darkened room.

He considers
replacing
that grizzled toothbrush;
considers
upgrading
to a plaque-annihilating model.

The man
turns off
his bathroom light
and purposefully
brushes his teeth
bathed in headlights
of passing cars.

He spits
into a dark hole,

gazes
across the street,

waits
for shadow.