American Dentist

"You'll floss your teeth, you'll brush your teeth Four times a day," he said. "Hand over all those scary sweets you hide under your bed. They fight your teeth, they bite your teeth. They give you gum diseases. My pretty patient will obey my orders, if she pleases. This pitchfork, sharp and flashing bright, would like to kindly scratch your teeth of dirty, sinful sweets that stealthily attach their rude, apocalyptic claws to innocent enamel. My pretty patient mustn't stall! Her breath smells like a camel." I listened, frozen smiling, nodding smiling, smiling nodding laughing frozen, as the laughing gas lay all its weight on me, the sweeter smell of painted teeth, their solid, polished luster, the dentist swiping secret stashes, dancing with a sugar rush, a ghost dropped down my throat, evaporating reservoirs of hidden sin, contaminating the angels who give didactic speeches on purity. I smell a camel overhead. His teeth are holey green. He's proud of him; he's done no sin. My teeth are white and clean.