chompers, fine mess indeed, mystic dutch, nightmares, others have touched me, poem, Poetry, scar tissue, sleepless heat, sonnet
3 a.m. Damp heat. Crumpled cotton sheet.
Other broken grins wallow through my night.
Other teeth. Other sighs. None here to bleat
out their bliss at each mouthful. None toyed quite
like how you toy. Once more you failed to find
me in my dreams. Or maybe I failed you.
It’s the same. We’re apart. The heat, combined
with pain, keeps me awake. My scar tissue
seems to draw others. You know others touch
me, run fingers over your work to guess
as to the source of this fine mess. Of course
they’re not close. I use to smoke Mystic Dutch
to soothe where your chompers had been; fine mess,
indeed. Now I’m sober, sleepless, morose.