It’s always there.

Each time I visit,

on the polished table

beside the glass of water

and inhalers.

The tooth.

 

I know they care for you

so how can they

leave it there?

Old and rotten,

broken, grey.

 

It been left for months

unless of course

it is a different one. . .

a different tooth.

 

I begin to recognise it.

Grey rooted, desiccated.

It must be gathering dust.

That tooth.

 

I think of your first tooth,

more than

ninety years ago.

Bursting through,

causing pain making you cry.

For your parents, sleepless nights.

 

The early loss of it –

Tooth Fairies would have gathered round

- hidden-under-pillows

early morning sixpence excitement.

 

How old that tooth must be!

Perhaps they’ll bury it with you.

Or maybe next time I visit

I’ll slip it in my pocket

and take it home with me.