the nagging remnants of a shitty meal
a morbid clown in the form of spinach
plays its pranks on the tip of my tongue
my fingernail is not long enough
swishing it out with water is not working
and i don't carry a fucking toothbrush around
at my wits' end
i concede into a restaurant
where the beauty at the host stand
comes to the rescue when she hands me
a tiny
carved
sliver of wood
my mouth is free
my mouth is clear of debris
now
if they only made a toothpick for the mind
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