Joe Shmif

Underneath this wilted wreath
lies a guy who has no teeth.
They all were lost, or yanked and tossed,
because the fool had never flossed.
So every night, to make it right,
his bones turn on the bathroom light
and take great care to floss the air
between the teeth that are not there.
The floss goes in, then out his chin,
scraping clean his toothless grin.
But wait—there’s more. He can’t ignore
his gnarly ribs, all twenty-four.
He takes the twine and puts a shine
all up and down his knobby spine.
High and low, from head to toe,
the frenzied floss goes to and fro.
He isn’t done, this skeleton,
until the rising of the sun.
Then back beneath the wilted wreath
he goes to doze, and dream of teeth.