Sink Poem

You brush your teeth
even though you don't want to
after kissing her—knowing you're
too old for the perfection of a girl
to keep you from routine necessities.
And, spitting in the basin, you notice
for the first time that beneath the froth
of pink fluoride there is an inscription
on the metal ring around the stopper that
reads “Chicago Sink Company.” It makes you
smile like some idiot—lost in pleasure
at that simple precision.

Imagine:
how very slender
how very graceful
the tools and the hands
that engraved it.