At
the end of your life
when
you die with a clot
somewhere
on a motorway
driving
at 90
with a cig between
your lips
scowling
after
the inferno has burned itself out
and
your 18 wheel rig buckled and naked
reveals
a nest of umbrella skeletons
fresh
from the factory
you
knew it would be your last delivery
It
is someone’s job to make an impression
Once
they prize apart your cinder jaws
Do
you think if you had known
That
when they say dental record
They
Mean Record
every
second of your life a contour
You
would have bothered doing anything
differently