walking down the street like a regular guy

without a probe or excavator

or tiny round mirror in his hand,

no rubber gloves, no hygienist

sitting attentively across from him

anticipating his needs and my needs,

no tasteful prints on the wall,

no Muzak in the ceiling,

no adjustable overhead light--

just the sun shining down on both of us,

and him too far away for me to see

all the little unruly tongues

of his nose hairs sticking out--I don't

recognize him at first,

striding through the world all alone like that

as if he weren't my dentist, as if

he didn't belong in my dentist's office,

as if he had a life outside

my head. That's when he tilts his head

and looks at me askance as if

I were sitting there in his dentist's chair,

and then he gives me a smile that says

he not only recognizes me,

but he recognizes himself inside

my head, where I've been keeping him

prisoner. And he raises a deft hand

and lets himself out

with a wave.

From Is That What That Is (FutureCycle Press, 2017). 
Used here with the author's permission.