She asks me how old I am
We’re standing side-by-side at the row of individual sinks
I wonder each time I come for an adjustment appointment
How often they clean all these dulling white porcelain fixtures
Losing their luster and showing a few hairline cracks
What with us spitting into them all day long
As if they were spittoons in Wild West saloons
Each patient has a tiny one-inch by one-inch cubby slot
Where we store our toothbrushes in little plastic protector tubes
These have holes at the top to allow the toothbrushes to dry
But I wonder how sanitary it is to have a hundred of them
Jammed in together like colorful plastic sardines
At least each slot has a name tag under it
So the chances of accidentally using someone else’s brush are minimized
Although I always picture that happening when I reach for mine
Have to be checking it twice, a hygienic no-no-no Santa
Not wanting to mix someone else’s oral naughty with my oral nice
I hope they sterilize these personal storage space in the wall-length hive
When one patient finishes the two or three years of treatment
And the next snuggle-toothed tenant buzzes into the colony
I pause my brushing and peer down at the teeny inquisitor
She having paused her brushing to stare up at me and pose her question
“I’m 25,” I say, feeling even more self-conscious than I already do when I come in here
A Godzilla compared to the mass of minty fresh mouthed preteen kiddies
“Whoa,” she says, “that’s old for braces,” foam dribbling down her lip
I glance at myself in the toothpaste-spotted mirror
That runs the length of the dozen or so sinks
“Yes,” I mumble, “I guess it is pretty old for braces”
My face reddening warm
As I bend down low to the child’s-height sink and spit
Lanning Lee 