Wide

The headrest cold against my skull.

That plastic bib, a child's shade.

A light above, deliberately dull.

A silent, practiced masquerade.

And then the voice, too close, too kind,

that simple, one-word plea.

My jaw unhinges, leaves behind

the privacy of me.

The metal cold, the suction whine,

a high-pitched, steady dread.

My tongue retreats, no longer mine,

just soft inside my head.

They poke, they prod, a distant thought.

My eyes are fixed upon

the ceiling tile, a pattern caught.

And then, the moment's gone.

They tell me 'rinse.' The water tastes

of sterile, bitter mint.

My mouth, a raw and wasted space.

A necessary stint.