Molestache

Oh the greasy stringy bristles on your face.
They call to me.
Like candy calling a child.
Neatly trimmed and sometimes combed.
They deserve more.
More of me and you. More playgrounds.
More 1992 windowless vans.
Oops, I caught you looking, longing, but never belonging.
As you near, my fingers find my phone;
and while your stache, that magnificent furry patch,
hypnotically suffocates me,
I dial 9-1-1.

Toothache

For the past few days I've been suffering from a toothache. It hasn't been too bad, but the throbing pain has been keeping me awake. So I find myself at 2:38am unable to sleep. Therefore I decided to write and dedicate a poem to my toothache.

Root Canal:
French fries, Ice cream, and pumpkin pie.
Extravagant stews.
Milk
Pancakes, and even a few soups.
I'm pretty sure that you loved these foods too.
I tried 1200 milograms, you tried it too.
Vicodin was refused.