I tongue the empty depression
where my tooth once anchored.
Just yesterday, I sat in a dentist office
and watched the pigeons in front
of Copley Square strut about
in their miscellaneous lives. I asked:
Who’s the captain of the birds, here?
I want his name and number. When
I got home, I watered the sprouts
of wildflowers that I planted
in a discarded wheelbarrow. I want
to practice green miracles. I want to
learn how to resurrect a useless life,
like reheating a cold cup of coffee
and the microwave’s chime telling you:
It is finished.
Sip in the garden. Drink again. A little
scotch goes a long way. Song sparrows
chitter their war shanties. I was wiser
when I had all my teeth. I was the petals
thumbing for sunlight. Heavy-handed
tear stains now irrigate my radishes.
I’ll tell you they’re red because of
some deep-rooted affection,
but who knows? Maybe it’s just the blood
I keep spitting from my mouth.
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