Metal clings to all of my crooked teeth,
and makes itself quite at home in there, too
Braces are like unwanted company
who you can't make crunchy food for
But worst of all, you can't yell at metal,
can't scream epithets till your face is blue,
can't call 'em by name, tell 'em to beat it
without sounding silly. Oh, I took you
for granted, dear departed letter 'S'
and now I can only cry and murmur
low and politely "yeth, yeth" in response
to dull questions that turn my head to roux
When all of the while, inside I'm chanting
sounds that are silvery, slippery, new.
Created: Mar 25, 2010Document Media