Brush Stroke

I wait
watching my mouth stretch sideways in the mirror,
longing for something: the paste’s sharp mint taste
or my spit speckled reflection
or slick bathroom tile cool to tell me,
give me relief from my disillusions,
to say mother soft
“the nightmares you’re having are only in your head,”
and pull slow the covers over me.
But instead I stand fresh breath nowhere
barefoot on the grit dirt bathroom floor
with a toothbrush in my mouth
and my eyes red wide open.

– Brush Stroke  © Mike Chernoff 4/2019