By Thomas Page
I am student teaching a senior level class in Washington, DC. They have to write some poems on these prompts. I decided to try all 30 of them. However, I will not say what the prompt was but what its number was.
I’m told within the next six months that I have to be back in that little office
With the 25” inch flatscreen on the loop
And reintroduce my insurance to them
So that I can do it again.
Sitting in the hygienist’s chair
I think of skyscrapers as the tool digs into my enamel
The sensation of the Sears building on the sky’s gums
It’s tool blinking with a red eye to avoid the midnight traffic
Or maybe the Flatiron like the toothbrush putting plaster of Paris on my teeth
Or the Transamerica the mirrored stick looking at my third molars having points I can’t see.
The dentist’s hand, in my mouth like the Burj Khalifa, trying to the very top of the roof with a narrowing scope
My mouth feels like a construction yard for the next corporate enterprise in the sky.
I rinse and repeat.