It's taken until I am almost seventy
For me to, unless I've forgotten
Which may be another poem in this one,
Splash toothpaste on my shirt
Preparing for bed, and the shirt
The whole day worn without incident,
The next morning noticed besmirched.
It might have been significantly better
Had I splashed toothpaste at thirty,
Forty, fifty, sixty,
For it would not, happening now,
Have so much unnecessary import.
The impact itself awaiting the next wash
For removal, and subsequent disavowal.
(Though the third poem in this,
By necessity, inescapable testament.)
I should never have opened my mouth.