The exhausted dream I live in

is scattered with teeth, the little

tombstones of Freud that,

plowed under,

grow up warriors.

My son buries his

between pillow and case so no one

can exchange them for

foundling dollars—

he wants to string them together,

the miser.

The rule is you lose a tooth for every child.

The new baby grinds,

gnashes, butts

at the inexplicable ache inside—

the dog that won’t shake off.

Yet he gums prettily between howls.

So smile! repeats his jack o'lanterned brother,

as I do, falsely,

as Death does.