A shadow of his former self,
my dad, in a hospital bed,
he’d broken his hip and a bit of his mind,
I’ll tell you what he said.
His close-mouthed lips formed these words:
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth!’
‘What about them Dad?’ I sighed,
‘Me teeth, me ruddy teeth.’
His face looked loppy-sided,
he didn’t try to grin,
I peered, to find the problem,
for sure, his teeth were in.
‘They’ve give me someone else’s,’
he lisped and almost bristled,
‘Let me see,’ I couldn’t bear
that when he spoke, he whistled.
His teeth were in, but upside-down,
he’d played these games before,
but this one was far preferable
to searching for teeth on the floor.
Polly Stretton © 2020