Mortality

It was the very tip of my tooth that broke

On a slice of pizza. Here I was at 43

And it made me wonder where my body

Really ended. That tip of tooth was one

Of those points that I felt the world with; one

Of my lower front teeth, close to the tip

Of my tongue. This is where I mull over the finer

Details of a ham sandwich or meditate

On a wad of gum. I have been long in getting

Used to the feel of sounds slipping over

That tooth. How will I ever say “sustenance”

Or “Cassandra” in the same way again?

It might feel the same to me if I lost my little

Toe, where I can feel the discomfort of my shoe

Especially on those summer days when I walk

From my office to the Roosevelt Street Bridge

A mile away. It might feel the same to me

If my nose could no longer sense the difference

Between the smells in a local coffee shop

And my mother’s kitchen in the mornings

Between September and Thanksgiving, those same

Days when there were not enough songs to sing

As we drove from Sacramento to the Bay

Area, thinking of Christmas and the feel

Of candy canes snapping between our teeth.