The Tug

The light is a white, clinical eye

boring into the soft of my gum.

I watch a dust mote drifting by,

waiting for the side of my face to go numb.

Her hand moves quick, a rubber slide,

and catches a strand behind my ear.

There is no place for the head to hide,

just the sharp, high snap that I hear.

The glove smells like powder and salt.

I taste the iron, bitter and wet.

Everything grinds to a sudden halt

in the sting of a tiny, physical debt.