restoration

I worry about my teeth.
I worry about what's housed in my mouth,
these little calcified whitish ships
docked along a gummy bay.
I worry that one day they will suddenly decide to set sail
and fall down the waterfall
of my throat into an acidic pit.
I worry that the acid can't handle the vessels' demands.
My teeth insist on a high life.
Polished and bright and
cutting and crushing
whatever gets in their way.
Today they are crowned and sit upon their thrones,
tomorrow they are thrown into a cave
with only two sticks to light their way.
But there's a bridge.
And even though ships don't normally walk across bridges,
maybe just this once
they can grow legs and escape.
Maybe just this once
they can stumble their way upon a shore
stocked with sunken treasure now earthed.
It's full of gold and scrolls,
bones and skulls,
conversation and stars
and everything one needs
to replace the small spaces
lost inside.