~reminescing to that time i flushed my false teeth down the toilet.~

Do pearly whites
reach the Pearly Gates
through tiny holes in porcelain bowls?

I mourn at night
for liths of white
as regret assaults my mind.

I curse my surgeon
who builds his fortune
on such ill-fitting designs.

The feeble hold
of the glue that moulds
the palette to my gum.

You could not stay
’til the end of day
and keep me from this slum?

Though lost to sea
my iv’ry debris
may be swallowed by a fish.

Caught in the quay and served to me,
the epitome of irony,
filleted upon a dish.

-Aaron Bailey

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