Friday, June 23, 2006

Dental Chair Blues

My dentist chair looks south from the fortieth floor of the Georgia Pacific Building. I sit, waiting to be punctured by the plaque removing implements of torture. Six lanes of morning cars snake out of the gravy-brown haze. There are no Clear Skies. Atlanta is sick today.

Later, I slide down the building into the streets. I'll wear the heat like a broad belt around my chest.

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