He spit out broken teeth
Over a kitchen table:
A lapse in depth perception
As he chased the falling ladle.
He ran his tongue across the
Remainders, up to the dripping gum.
He calculated three teeth lost
And head-shook,
“Done is done.”
He wiped the white shards into his hand,
Excused himself (bowing quickly),
Threw them into the bathroom can,
Then looked to the lit mirror, sickly:
“Oh, ssser you are,”
he said to himself,
As he spit some red down the drain.
“We could have let that ladle fall,
But had to go chasing—Again.”
As he drove himself to the hospital,
The rear-view glass caught him staring
And shot back,
“It's not so bad to chase,
We just need to start off
by preparing.”
So he woke up from the surgery.
The doctor was smiling softly,
“Here's a hand-mirror; care to see?”
“Myself? Not yet.
I feel awfully—”
Doc laid down the glass,
“Of course,”
And left. Then the man took hold of the thing:
“Firtht,
imagine
what you will thhhee,”
he whispered,
And steadied his gaze
like a king.
