Brush

You look around and it's morning again,
just like yesterday,
and you wonder how you'll fuck up this day,
this "great opportunity" that's just like all
the other days.
It doesn't matter how often you brush your
teeth the night before,
over and over and flossing in the spaces.
It makes no difference.
You'll still have sour breath.
You'll taste the residue of cigarettes smoked long before,
and that poor tongue of yours will be parched
white,
always dry and white, always.
And you look out at the morning, rolling that
white tongue around in your sticky mouth
and your mind soars through the endless ways
you could fuck up this ordinary day.
So you mope to bathroom and begin smearing
toothpaste all over your mouth and especially
your tongue, brushing that tongue now,
brushing until the stink is gone and maybe
you'll manage to hide your white tongue
for another day.
And you know you'll do the same tomorrow
and the day after,
every day forever,
because no matter what you do
you will start every day,
every "great opportunity"
with this white tongue that can't seem to move on,
that can't recover,
that can't hydrate and soften to pink
because it just can't escape those cigarettes
you smoked long ago on other days,
days when you didn't know your tongue
would turn white.