I dreaded this day for weeks, <br />watching the black X on the calendar march ever closer, <br />regressing back to toddler years in my mind. <br />As I pull into the parking lot <br />I wonder who else is here for voluntary pain. <br /> <br />The assistant walks me down the hall to the room. <br />It’s the one at the far end, surrounded by windows, <br />ensuring no possible escape <br />and insulating my shrieks from those <br />here for just a routine cleaning. <br /> <br />My eyes tiptoe around my cell <br />darting from one sharp metal object to another. <br />It occurs to me that intelligent modern people <br />spend thousands to attend schools of high regard <br />to learn the trade of torture. <br /> <br />Were they picked last for dodge ball? <br />If so, I am terribly, terribly sorry. <br /> <br />The dentist enters, singing. <br />“Let’s get started, ” he says with a smile. <br />I wonder if my attorney has my latest will <br />and I remind myself to call my mother <br />if my speech survives intact. <br /> <br />A pinprick later fur fills my mouth, <br />and he leaves me to gaze upon <br />advertisements for superior oral health. <br />They mock me, chiding me with the message <br />that it's all my fault. <br /> <br />The radio is on, but will not suffice this time. <br />I plug in my headphones to drown out <br />this cruel world, and switch on a favorite, loudly. <br />Nothing left to do now but surrender <br />to The Chair and the guitars in my brain. <br /> <br />But after a few peaceful moments of lying back, <br />staring blankly out the window at the autumn morning, <br />Novocain and music coursing through my body, <br />I suddenly realize that this could quite possibly be <br />the best part of my day.<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/reflections-from-the-dentist-s-chair/
