the edge, pull, and seat

What’s left of my tooth has a date with destiny.

The steel that couldn’t be sunk— hull torn open— rests at the bottom.

Sunken.

The shield of bone, toasted.

Malnutrition. Meth. Smoke.

✦

I sip morning coffee on the edge of this drama—

a necessary conflict.

Stomach in knots,

like facing God after telling Him to take a hike.

I had an hour and thirty-eight minutes—

a narrow corridor between knowing and being known.

✦

Time to rise and prepare the body.

The poor, but noble occupation:

hunched over flesh, working in spaces poorly kept.

You try to shut it out—

most days.

But chronic pain stands up tall.

Doesn’t falter.

A persistent store, open at all hours.

✦

My son missed school.

My daughter makes sure I know.

I stare. Then smirk.

What can you do.

✦

Still searching for a dentist—

one that’s new.

The judgment seat.

Reckon with unchecked demons.

Leave with an emptiness to prove it.

✦

Look to the wind.

Don’t flinch.

This is just another brush with death.