Friday, January 2, 2009

Dreams: Howie Good


The chair was tilted back. My mouth was open.
He reached in with a pair of pliers.
They were the pliers from my household toolbox.
I became aware of music, something classical,
playing discreetly in the background
The tooth was stubborn. He grunted as he yanked at it.
I wondered why I was there, what I had done.
In the outer office, voices were arguing.
He yanked harder. Sweat dripped down his face.
I looked at the brown stains on the ceiling
to avoid looking further at him.
We stayed like that for hours, perhaps days.
It got so bad that even the birds,
with their wild, tiny hearts, flew away.

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