Anchors

Your four-color cardboard teeth
freeze-framing the rigid mouth
in a rigor mortis smile.
The acrylic glare of those teeth,
storyboarded to say 
"Trust me.
I know what's going on."

Those formica centerfold teeth,
whispering sweet and soothing,
spinning a warm silken cocoon.
Then, like a mantis lover,
tearing into innocent flesh,
severing nerves from eye to brain.

The approximated soundbite smile
stamped across your face
like a cheshire bar code,
rimmed red to suggest 
endorphin releasing
but more suggestive of recent feeding.
It says, "Trust me, lover..."

Your red mouth, like a bloody anus,
color-coordinates your matronly
shoulder-pads, reassuring and wise.
I want to grab the corner of that smile
and peel it back,
like a merchandising sticker,
like shrink-wrap.

What's underneath that candy bar wrapper
of shiny hair, lipstick and earnest eyes?
Surprise! A little gray-suited man,
50ish, with comb-over and briefcase,
complexion like spoiled custard.
Hard, avaricious eyes like buckshot
fired into an unbaked loaf of a face.
The wizard behind the curtain;
the ruler of this world.

David W. Aronson
November, 2004