The Tooth Picker: A Poem

Dedicated to Walt Whitman

I am a man of the narrow spaces

There no space remains

To breathe, to grow, to live

To chew, to brush, to floss.

Something is stuck in the narrow spaces

A morsel lodged between my teeth

I yearn to be free of it 

I am the tooth picker. 

In my dreams rotten teeth crumble

My mouth a horror of broken stumps

I must choose new teeth

I am the tooth picker. 

Broken-down busboy, trailer park carny

We share the same fate, grimacing and ashamed

Yet hope remains for smiles and laughter

A new day dawning in my mouth. 

False teeth sustain me.

New mouth set me free.