Mouthful of Cotton

I recline against the red leather

breathing awkwardly

suction straw sipping my spit.

Root canal number nine,

reaping what I’ve sown.

Damn stomach acids

eroding away

enamel.

I did floss.

Thousands of dollars

and plenty of pain,

the finger of blame

points back at me.

A dentist’s tray with an assortment of tools and tubes hanging from it. The cords dangle off the bottom edge of the page.