air pocket

air pocket in the toothpaste tube
pops out a little extra gel onto
upturned bristles. I look down
the neck into a black cavity
like nothing I've seen
before. Like if you chopped
my head off, drained me out,
scooped out the bones. Yeah,
it would look like that.
Of course, I've never really looked
into the neck of the toothpaste
before -- not so deliberately.
It's one of those inevitabilities,
something you picked up a long
time ago and only have to think
about once every few months
when its thoroughly flattened,
exhausted. Even then there's that
tiny bit of paste left in the neck,
a barrier to the emptiness behind.

What is a hole made of? It's made
of nothing. Absence has no substance,
so can a hole exist?

I don't know how the tube gets filled
some assembly line churns them out
robotic arms and everything. Even
without a human in sight, there is room
for imperfection, for a pocket of air,
for a hole.