“Nothing seems to be right anymore. Everything tastes a little waxy.” —Bembo making moan
After a visit to the dentist, friend,
consider the bitter truths of the ancients:
how our taste buds mutiny, our teeth
grow long, and the globed fruit
of our being, about which
Archie discourses, sticks
out the calyx of its tongue
and talks back. Oh for the
days of mute regressive glory!
We look back, poking our tongue
into memory’s corner, reconnoitering
the moments when everything we probed
tasted good, so good, our dinners exquisite,
our thoughts divine, our old ladies young ladies,
and we ourselves bursting into bloom. Ahem.
Your attention, please, one moment, you old dozer.
Your forbearance, if you would, whilst I extract the wax
from my hairy ear. What exactly is your bellyache?