Sheepishly held-down dental floss
guitar strings and cracked hands
like sink-side toothpaste.
Cuspid picks in a mint-scented, plastic bag beneath textbooks
and a zipper rusted like gingivitis.
A backstage house of pamphlets
slurred time like novocaine speech. Thirty-two people sat at coffee-stained tables talking about their routines between sips of créme de menthe cocktails and water.
Fluoride lyrics dripped from his mouth as people closed theirs.