The dentist's chair's where I make up names.
Contemplate the origins of fluoride and floss.

She asks about school, my work, and delayed
diseases, but procaine isn't known for replies.

I tell her I do not require another prescription,
for the pain in my jaw's finally learned English.

Plaque builds around sounds of yesterday's
words; it's no wonder my mouth's so unclean.

She says she never tires of scraping on teeth,
aside from days when all choppers look alike.

My future's an x-ray trained on molar grooves.
My future's a cavity invading enamel and pulp.