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
The elasticity of life,
While casually mentioning a piece about
Providing only a temporary resting place for
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.
Green vinyl chairs
That are tastelessly garnished in
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
Is stickier than a melted candy-cane.
But by no means taste the same.
Waiting for that soluble solution to take its hypnotic hold,
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,
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.