Waiting for the Novacaine

The root still lives

but the tooth is shaved off,

capped in plastic,

awaiting its crown of

GOLD,

not porcelain like the other two

but the GOLD

of Rushes, and bouillon,

and dead bodies,

like the prison ones in books

that are robbed of fillings,

an experience unchanged

from the days of Dickens.

Like the pennies on dead eyes

that I suddenly saw the purpose for

at my mother's bedside,

and how, when her jaw fell,

I knew why Jacob Marley had that

toothache rag around his face.

I told this to my sisters that night,

who never knew before

how useful reading can be.