Snaggletooth

View of the Sound from Orcas Island

I catch my snaggletooth rotting
as I glide my jaw from left to right,
grinding my teeth to try to tear
canine against canine, in a futile attempt
to bring symmetry to my mouth.

I tug down on my left ear nervously.
A tic left over from infancy.
When I would thrust my thumb to suckle
and self-sooth myself into sensible submission.
Now an empty endeavor exerting my inner
need to have both ears sit evenly on my head.

I find my conscious slipping.
Wandering from question to question
and judgment to judgment.
A fevered frantic failure streamed.
Until I pull the needle and string
the thread of my thoughts to stitch
the folds of my brain together into
one smooth cohesive quilt.
A patchwork of perfectly placed
motives and memories; a balanced ballast
of cerebral serenity.