The Teeth That Crossed The Picket Line

My teeth are crossing the picket line,
at night, when they think my nail
won’t slip into the alley between them
as they slowly edge themselves out.

For seven years they have been striking.
But this week my nose smelt clove oil,
the taste of peppermint made my tongue
flip over and swamp my mouth,

remembering the years it was wound
together with metal and elastic,
and before that the xylophone smile
the front two indecisive:

one stepping in front of my jaw,
the other behind, beside the canine
which had been offended in some
way because it pointed straight

forward at everybody, accusingly,
and hooked my lip on the left
side when I laughed,
pegging a grin to a sneer.

I lay back on the clean white chair
the dentist sneezed on his sleeve
said you have had four teeth out
you must watch that one at the back.

So I have installed a micro-camera.
They’re not going to get away with anything.
I will pick the pesto out before it’s noticed.
I won’t ask ‘is it gone now’ anymore.