My Russian dentist and I discuss poetry,
   well, for a few minutes until he surveys the damage
and packs my mouth with gauze,
   then tells me he prefers Gumilyov to Akhmatova,
how to pronounce Tsvetaeva,
   and don’t I agree Mandelstam is sublime,
then he recites something in Russian,
   so I feel pretty darn lucky
that my teeth are a mess because of early decades
   devoted to hard candy and a Grand Guignol
of chocolate bars. Oh, the Paydays of youth,
   the Three Musketeers, Snickers, Mounds,
Almond Joys and a coincidental lack of dedication
   to oral hygiene have left me with an office
of dental professionals as best friends.
   My dentist is apologetic when he causes me
the least bit of pain, but I don’t mind
   because, without him and his colleagues,
I would be a toothless hag, or, like Charlotte Bronte,
   a tight-lipped smiler and reluctant
to speak in public, but I am able to sound off
   and express any number of half-baked opinions
with a set of incisors so pearly
   that I am rarely loath to express happiness,
even laughter, though I’m afraid
   of almost everything—the dark, flying,
driving over bridges, boats, water, heights—
   so you’d think I’d be afraid
of the dentist, but a true show-off