A Tooth
Extracted
Maybe O’Brien
reached into my mouth;
to pull a
tooth like plucking weeds
where flaccid gums had gone to seed
and thick
the blood that comes to bleed
thistle purple gouts and crone’s disease.
Between forefinger
and thumb in distaste,
dispassionate
holds it to my swollen face,
and with
toneless voice I heard him state,
‘imagine my
boot grinding skull and pate
forever - this certainly has been your fate’.
Could well have
been some other spook,
or maybe it was you
who left me shook
and reaching
for my fluoxetine.
What teeth I have left shape silent screams,
while
tinkling with wretched ivory keys,
toss off crushed velvet songs on satin seas
of truth flies
somewhere on the breeze,
anxious remembrance I troubled leave,
and find lost
hours to sometime grieve,
wind back
through youth that you did thieve.
We’ll unlace
the boot that stamps the face
and leather straplines with old fingers trace.
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