The Impression Room

It was a hot day, overcast and chalky,and those were my crooked teeth,and those were my cliffy pink gums,scored with reptilian striationson the rickety aluminum shelvesin the Hyde Park Bank Building—quiet always, no matter when;quiet as this crooked slip of a roomwith all the crooked teeth in the neighborhoodnext to the examining chair.Never a sound on the fifth floor;halls and doors rolled out grayand spare with arrows pointingand sign-in. Soft hush though everyone's running lateand the dim waiting room's packed,the small sconce lights fanning yellow.Open your mouth, hold still, don't bite down, wait,and the tongue gets tucked awayand they ask but you can't answer.So hard to be a self.

The door was left ajar so I stole my impression—tagged and numbered, sunk in my raincoat pocketbefore Dr. Block returned with cementfor the braces. The sky went black,cracked with rain, and I, still-life with wires spittinglight, could hear, through drill and polish and thunderand through the dry wall, the buoyant chattering and laughterof the plasters on the shelves in their dismal ark.The same way I always heard my mother'sout-at-sea whistle long after she picked me up,dropped me at school; whistle for the fog that came tosurround me, my tightened smile saying I'm on my way,and I'm here, I'm here.