It is not unlike a beach hammock
this vinyl and chrome articulated
head rest, back rest, bum rest
leg rest, arm rest swoop on which I lounge.

I open wide, surrender: her gloved
fingers approach, bearing the sharp,
shaped needle pick she will wield
to scale and clean my teeth.

The spatter beads my lenses:
I see as a housefly: cannot focus
on her eyes above that surgical mask;
she hovers, multiplied, before me.

Water sprays, the suction’s
white noise dissects me.
Her softness nudges my arm
her fingers probe my mouth.

Her fierce tenderness
holds me: I cannot leave
I think her name is Calypso.
We meet again in six months.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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