“Between ninety and four-fifty for a
crown
but I recommend an inlay at three-fifty.”
His words breezed out as if we were of
course
equals participating in some healthy economy;
sadly
a notion no longer within my reach.
So I aired my stand-by line oft used for
levity
and to hide embarrassment on such occasions:
“I
know I look rich but I’m not” - confirming
with no trace of
envy, “I’m not a dentist.”
Though I have time to decide still, I
suspect
my now-over-sixty visage will transition closer
to
that witnessed in any Texas crack whore’s
police mugshot as
yet another late-life
extraction proves inevitable.
Anyway, I learned some time ago to
accept how
fate leads us all ultimately into a
tomb-stoned
sepulchre.