[Hot off the press, & with best wishes from L.E. Leone to y’all—enjoy!]
The chicken farmer’s husband, a carpenter, is building her a new coop. People crave chicken and her business is expanding.
But that’s in France, where I left my dirty boots, in a region famous for butter.
Here, in Century City, the word on the street is: “Dentistry.” Yes, the dentists of L.A. can (and will, it is said, for a price) turn you into a Christmas tree. Flash, blink, gleam, you’ll be the belle of the ball, and once a year small children will run to you.
“What happened? Who is he?” your girlfriends will say, while meanwhile in the buffet line lead guitarists and lesbians fight for your hand.
A tin of ziti is overturned, almost without you even noticing.
“My dentist!” you will shout, over the racket and with a twinkle, to your girlfriends. You will put your fingers on their arms, in English.
From now on . . .
Wherever you go, even France, you will be the toast of the party. Nay, you will be the part of the breakfast that toast longs to be dipped into. Only white, instead of yellow.
And gorgeous instead of over, or easy.
Imagine: you don’t need braces, caps, or bridges. Your smile is whole milk, honey; your bite, the best! Everyone says so. You’ll be eating spare ribs at ninety. More to the point, you will be able to sink your teeth, finally, into poems like this.