Millstone

I’m creeping toward forty as though toward
a car wreck, with the same morbid intrigue.
To mark the occasion half a stout

half-forgotten molar pops loose as I’m
flossing and drops with a startling plink
into the enameled basin. I take

it up, palming it like a prospector
scrutinizing that first glinting stone.
This to me is a pyrite-style portent.

Molar, from the Latin: millstone. Romans
grinding the nightly flour, a residue
bleaching the air, ghosting their faces.

Now my injured mouth aches as the dentist
hovers, intent to intrude with his grinding
tool, gloved hand quivering over the trigger.

Dan Pinkerton