I look at this man hovering over me,
His face directly above my own,
Examining, probing,
And I wonder,
Can this man really love teeth?
Can he wake up,
Breathe in the smell of morning,
And sing and laugh,
Overjoyed at the prospect
Of poking at my molar
With a shining smooth metal pick?
What made this man want to be a dentist?
Did he toil through the long years of school thinking,
"It will all be worth it
If I can make just one mouth slightly cleaner?"
I see what he does,
for he does it to me,
And I find no cause to have passion for it
Does this doctor live for his work,
Or does he merely work to live?
If indeed he feels as I do about dentistry,
Then how could he do it?
How could he spend so many years of his life
Wearing a surgical mask
And looking into strangers' mouths?
It is my greatest hope
That the dentists of America
Are strange men that simply love teeth