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