He could not remember
the last time
he had been to an actual
dentist
(the old country, perhaps?),
although he
did have a dim recollection
of a late
night encounter with an oral
hygienist once
where the two, pre-necking,
had a
major row about plaque
vs. platelets,
but when his throbbing tooth
kept him
awake well into sunrise, he
knew he
could avoid the inevitable
no longer.
Dread was not something that
had ruled
his unlife beyond the brightening
sky or
sharp splinters of wood, so
when he
heard the dentist's strict injunction
against sweets,
"You would be well advised, sir,
to avoid
anything but the occasional
dessert,"
it was not without a certain
degree of regret.
Still, the next night, equipped
with a gold
incisor (no toxic silver for him,
thank you),
he began his new regimen—
not a one
of the vessals he supped from
having the
lingering claret-like sweetness
he had so
come to love. After a century
of indulgence,
diabetics, like ice cream melting
in the sun,
had become just another fondess
he would
have to do without; while deep down
in his
cabinet of dirt, no matter how much
he licked
the remnants of caked blood on
his lips,
it would seldom again taste enough
of frosting.