Reclining in the dentist’s chair,
I stare at the half-masked face.
Four lidocaine shots in and I’m
not entirely numb. The offending
tooth refuses sleep like an angry
child. The dentist crosses her arms. 
“Let’s think about this,” she says. 
Together, she and the hygienist
marvel at this impossible insomnia,
and I say I’d rather not be
such an interesting patient. 
New stratagems coax the toddler
tooth into fitful sleep, its eyes
fluttering in the equipment’s din. 
She asks if I want to go ahead.
I grip the chair and mumble “yes.”