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.