Behind the sterile glass,

And through the sterile doors,

Sterile elevator music plays,

(Although it is almost entirely muted.)

Accompanied by an educational film,

Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

Primitive magazines top the tables,

Documenting the  important on-goings of

Style

&

 The elasticity of  life,

While casually mentioning  a piece about

Dwindling farmland.

Providing only a temporary resting place for

Any dust

Brave enough to lend its cursory services in

Such a pragmatic setting.

Through the door,

Near where the customary aquarium usually would stand.

Is the teeth of the whole office.

The sharp,

Golden teeth.

Green vinyl chairs

That are tastelessly garnished in

Transparent sheets,

That aid in sanitation,

As well as decoration.

Appear  to lazily  recline,

As if they have nothing better to do,

However this is their preemptive position.

To be patient.

For the patients.

Tools laid precisely out,

In a particular order,

Waiting to infiltrate,

Waiting to fill the vulnerable mouth full of some foreign  numbing agent,

A chemical that in both nature

&

Composition,

Is stickier than a melted candy-cane.

But by no means taste the same.

Waiting for that soluble solution to take its hypnotic hold,

So that

The other forces involved can push the tongue around

Like an unfair schoolyard fight.

Waiting to scrape the teeth

And shine lights so bright,

…Light so bright and blue,

That the enamel has to retreat,

Leaving behind his many  crowns  in the process.

The exposed royalties now

Reduced to bleeding gums,

Clinched fists,

&

Muffled hail-marys.

 A lingering taste of vinegar,

Is left behind in this wake,

(Along with scores of slain bacteria)

With a hint of minty fluoride.

 …Accompanied by the piercing sound of drilling.

That still rings…

That all but drowns out traffic on the way home.

But does nothing to prevent,

The cruel stoplights from

Doing their job.