Everything is quiet in the medicine cabinet tonight.
The toothpaste, long and languorous,
sleeps on its side;
its belly protrudes just a little.
The conditioner dozes with one bluey eye.
There will be no wrangling at this hour,
though the razors remain sharp,
the floss tightly wound.
No tampons will be launched.
Even the aspirin have settled down,
have swallowed themselves, finally
resigned to anonymity.

I shut the door gently, turn
from the odd human face.

This poem first appeared in Maize, No. 2 (The Writers' Center of Indiana, 2003)
Used here with the author's permission.