Toothpick
written by: Julian Matthews
I am one of 300.
I arrow-dive inside you
braving canines and cavities.
You stick me deep into the cavern
of your maw without a torch to guide me.
I blindly poke and prod, jab and stab,
find the offending dental detritus, crusty
remnants in crevices, moochers in rent-free places,
then evict them like freeloading interlopers.
It used to be popcorn kernels, potato chips
or hard-candy bits, and now it’s fish bones,
pork crackling or a piece of steak rib.
Sometimes, I smell wine, whisky or beer,
I am a teetotaller and never a partaker.
It irks me you constantly libate
but I’m no hater, I’m just here to shake
off those stubborn molar squatters,
and their pesky pit posse
from ye precious grills.
I’m no gold-digger, either, just your part-time
cakehole-lover, your oral foo-fighter,
straight-and-narrow enamel protector.
I prevent expensive visits to those overpaid
mouth-plumbers, masked drillers-and-fillers,
rinse-and-repeat jerkers.
I am your budget mercenary,
the quick-fixer, a speedy in-and-out bugger,
leaving no doubt that lingering louts
are loosed and you can tighten the screws
in your pout and, of course, shut
that loud mouth–that’s constantly getting you
into trouble–and smile confidently, once again,
after you discard me, your martyr for unholey causes,
your single-use woody friend, to deny dentistry
and go beyond.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This is part of series of poems I am developing on ordinary household things, in the spirit of Wallace Stevens (“not ideas about the thing but the thing itself”) and William Carlos Williams (“No ideas but in things”).
- Toothpick - April 14, 2025
- Ten Years On - April 3, 2024
- Monsters Unincorporated - October 28, 2023
