Say When

When I am tortured by the dentist,
and at the least, like twice a year,
I wish I hadn’t been apprenticed
to, of all things, a chocolatier.

Alas, sweet tooth, you've cost me dearly,
in both deductible, and clearly
in pain and suffering to boot.
Oh well, at least it’s not my foot.

That aforementioned, sad affliction,
is what the textbook would call gout,
and let there be no shred of doubt,
as to my chocolate addiction,

but to withdraw from meat and wine…
And then pretend that all is fine?

It’s lots of things, but fine, it isn’t,
this desecration of my flesh.
The whole thing loosely reminiscent —
I claim no birthing in a creche —

to, after serving out your mission,
return… but only on condition
of being put up on the cross.
You will return, so no big loss.

Return, refreshed and resurrected,
If you behave and cease all sin.
One doesn’t know where to begin.
A steroid shot — right where affected —

And you return to walk again.
Mouth open, dentist says. Say when.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT