A tooth in the mouth of a smiling woman
Rooted in inevitable decay
Surrounded by warm, moist flesh
And others like me whose rate of decay is relative
To their position on the bridge
The tongue our white knight
The crown our servant of peace
Swallowed whole
The drool of
Gap-toothed impermanence
The space in a child’s face
Where winds become whistles
Without effort
Fills in, begins again
And waits
For will
To wiggle
Its way out