Dry Socket I’m bad at being an invalid, so I keep angel teeth in my pocket and crunch them up into dust so I can commune with the dead and talk to my dad, though he’s still on this mortal coil. When I’m not hungry, I’ll use them for cab fare, happy to hear the rattle they make with dimes and nickels as we hurtle down a road pockmarked by hard winters and stick shift driving, uncertain of the destination as I check my phone and try to control a kite high and a conversation with Dad’s ghost as it rides beside me sans seatbelt, going on about something I can’t quite hear right over the grind of the gears, or maybe it’s the brakes. I pop molars, trying to get a hold of my skull without fracturing temporal bones, and cradle incisors in the sweaty palm of my hand.
bam