The Interpol dentist

Lima,

three o’clock Wednesday,

walls galleried

with enamel amphitheatre x-rays -

detached mouths keeping incognito.

 

Toilet Duck

bouquet,

cerise mouthwash,

a rippled plastic cup,

and a half full

spittoon.

 

Next doors drill pitch hits

a thin Marathon Man crescendo,

pushes higher, needle point high –

tinnitus oscillates

the oral aural experience,

hostaged to a chair.

 

Carlos the Jackal wanted,

opposite,

staring behind

Carlos the Jackal

sunglasses,

and wonky, girlie lips.

 

The tooth spook taps teeth

with his mini car bomb

mirror, counts molars, holds my tongue,

checks incisors for links

to international terrorism

finds none on the run.

 

Just Friday’s Aids test,

buttonholes,

chest x-ray,

and cake,

in the cross hairs

of my wedding list.