Truth Brush

Wouldn’t it be fine
muses the Widow Wyile
as she taps her play pen
against the page
wouldn’t it be fine and handy
to have a personal pearly-handled
boar-bristled truth-brush
you could deftly use
upon such varied items
as people places things
facts  fables
    news   science   stories
past present and predicted
to scrub-a-dub their surfaces
and so discern their deeper down
trust and truth worthiness? 

hmmmmm
Could you Would you
get close enough
to brush them?
hmmmmmm
             hmmmmm
Would they Could they
let you?
And if they didn’t
What would that tell you?
hmmmmmm
            hmmmmm 

The first truth is
the Widow Wyile realizes
that many sizes of brush
would be best
starting with a brazen
industrial model
which certainly most certainly
need not be made
of the finest materials
to get some sweeping started 

Indeedly doodly doo
any brush at all
personal   or hamlet   village
town   county   or country sized
willing to be of service
in sweeping away
cobwebs of obfuscation
false shine or diversionary dazzle
could improve on what’s the matter
way down here or there
in the murky depths
of the centuries ole
enormous pickle barrel
we’ve somehow been persuaded
to be lodged
and banging around in
swimming in an excess of swill
appeased by habit and
inevitable gravity
lolling on couches
in somewhat abject serenity
cloaked by so it goes doom
so long it’s been
so many mice gone blind
simply normalized even
before the fabled carving knives
of dutiful gals and guys
were employed
to further hamper them
now see how they run
up and down the clock
going gingerly slow
or how they mousie-paddle
round and round
without their tails
whiskers drooping
fashionably some would say
ears tuned only to the ping
of the box bell strapped
to their wrist or ankle
oh me   oh my     oh see   oh sigh
and now there’s more
the cows get blamed
and so do the chickens
the one for flatulence
the other for the perils
their wild selves would not suffer

What a tale
our truth brush could tell
with even a partial scouring
with a sudsy rub-a-dub-dub
what sensible serviceable peppermint
castile could reveal
who were those men in the tub
how many babies
lost or saved
from flinging out
or flailing in questionable
pickle barrel bathwater
oh me   oh my
imagine for a scant moment
how much mush
a truth brush could brush
if a truth brush there were
if a truth brush could brush
lying layers away
from the very foundations
to the tip of the pie
revolving showily
like the London Eye
too many stories high 

hmmmmm
            hmmmmm
oh see   oh say
can you see
through the grime?
through the layers of time? 

if a truth brush brushed
much mush away
we could play
a round of sing song
I am
We are
Creative
We belove
barrel free
pen free
possibility
squeaky salt of
the sea and earth
clean as a pickle
can be 

hmmmmm
            hmmmmm  

and truly
be it known
that game
can be played
anytime
anywhere
when when field
and self-healed
freed mice
and we are ready
for swift rush
radiant
in sight