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ISSUE:  Winter 2007

Spare me the judgment seat,
the immaculate apron
with its little chains.
Spare me the old saw
of a tooth for a tooth,
and the pearly whites
of the good doctor
who brings the blinding
bright light down. Spare me
That eternal lidocaine.
That leaden sheet.

I know the drill.
I know the joke
About the final cavity
I’m soon to fill.

Spare me.



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