fountain

I remember the spit-fountain
in my father’s dental boutique
staring down at the circular drain
spitting hoping it was almost over
his gentle hands wielding mysteries
of pain and precision and finally relief

lying back in the hard barbershop chair
I used to wonder if the same company made
both scrolled fantasies of wrought iron
and black leatherette a place to fix your face
your teeth your smile and as he stirred in pestle
the silver-mercury amalgum I would years later
pay to have replaced by less poisonous acrylic
we would have a moment of bonding closer
more intimate than anything else in our lives
his soft warm fingers in my mouth.

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