The toothbrush.
A red club with bristles.
Stupid for requesting one.
I sat in her guest chair,
Tiny legs swinging
While she made me cheap coffee
A pot like a cauldron
I imagine me inside
Her, dicing carrots
I imagine her car
How much gas it must use
Wonder why she never made the switch
She doesn’t look like she can afford to be so big
And they have grants for the reduction now
How much does she eat in a day?
Such a waste
She hands me a mug
Bigger than my head
“Sorry I don’t have anything smaller,”
She laughs.
I laugh, too.
Thinking about me
The fact that everything I have is smaller
And I know this won’t go anywhere

About paulgude

Paul Gude writes small books, makes stupid music, draws silly pictures, and does weird things on stage.
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