The other day, at dinner time
I was chewing some asparagus
and, after a time, my mouth felt a bit strange.
     I moved my tongue around and bit down
      and encountered what felt to be a little stone.
I chewed again, as gently as I could
and encountered a tooth:
my tooth — a molar that had come loose.
     I carefully removed it.
That molar had been servicing me for most of my life
and I should have been thankful for its years of grinding.
     But, instead, for a moment, I felt I was falling apart.
I caressed the space where the molar had been
with my curious tongue, and I was not pleased.
     I wrapped up that little piece of my life in a handkerchief
      and put it in my pocket and waited until dinner was over
     and I was back in our apartment.
What was I going to do with my poor lost tooth?
     I still don’t know.
I don’t think my dentist wants it.
      My wife doesn’t want it. 
 Neither do my children.
     But I cannot throw it away.
I suppose  that’s being silly.
     Well, I’m being silly!

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