My Broken Tooth


is a moon. Mentally ill, it waits,
skulking in the bushes,
for the neighbor to arrive. Feel breath
fly through two holes.
Feel a string of water expand
the innermost particles.
A bleeding nurse wipes its drool
with a dank rag.
The night my father died the Winter
Olympics blared from
the corner TV. They skied down
through the closed-captioned snow.
My father looked screwed, a spare
tire under the double bed.
A purple marble like a giant eye
floating above his head.
I cracked it on glass, he said.
My Tolstoy tattoo frowns under a dim lamp.
Chalk in a cheek to pump down
the shaky jaw.
The drinker’s face repeats.
Somewhere in Nagano a neon sign blinks
making the faux fur gleam.

Jazz_Bistro.jpg