Impression

He stood in front of me
mixing bowl and a wooden spoon
stirring stirring stirring what looked like
grape HubbaBubba gum. Distinct color,
you either know it or not, and I knew it.

I think he stood there, blocking my exit,
afraid I would bolt at any moment. It’s
nothing personal, I do not like dentists.
Bad experiences as a child, hard to scrape
away memory scars, hard to open wide
while remembering.

But here is this dentist, smiling, of course,
wearing a violet smock and mask, deep
purple gloves, in an office that pulses purple.
Everything from waiting room chairs to
wallpaper to clock, to pens they give out.

I relax. He stirs. The goop looks like
a childhood memory, a mouthful wad
of bubble gum, guaranteed to blow
the biggest, bestest purple bubbles…
also the stickiest mess to comb out
of my long hair but worth it. That tangy,
chemicalesque flavor like no other. Unique
like the color. I open wide, he spatulas
the goop in, tells me to stay open while it sets
the impression. My mouth waters in protest,
a rancid unpurple bile, a taste like something
that should be locked up and buried under
the ocean forever fills my mouth.

I gag but he’s gone. I calculate my odds
of leaping from the chair and spitting this vile,
anti-grape gum substance that has now adopted
an eye-watering smell that has me paralyzed.
He comes back in, his smile arriving before him.
He yanks, pulls, tugs at this leech form until
it disengages. I spit without command.

He laughs. I know, it doesn’t taste good
but it looks good. His pearly whites are the last
I saw of him that day. I wonder if they still make
grape HubbaBubba gum but it doesn’t matter.
I’ve never going back to that either.

~ J R Turek Hour 17