By: Adrian Slonaker
Peering at a prosaic painting on the ceiling,
I want to tap my digits to Dusty Springfield
while I’m on my back,
and my chompers get scraped
to panda-eyed pathos.
The chanteuse wants to stay awhile,
but months of plaque cannot,
cracking and crumbling little by little
while a Spectoresque symphony splashes.
The hygienist whirrs at midtempo
as Dusty wishes and hopes,
huskiness haunting over horns,
stray mist spritzing lips.
A son of a preacher man may have taught her,
but it’s a son of a bitch who’s
coercing me into a root canal.