“I see you made it!” Dr. Lorman’s voice is garbled behind the Hazmat—the new normal, besides the temperature swipe to my forehead and a COVID questionnaire to obtain a pass to the 43rd floor dentist’s office. For three months I had carefully chewed on the other side of my temporary post-root canal tooth. Capping a crown was not an essential pandemic emergency. “Let’s get this done quickly, shall we?” Dr. Lorman is his usual assuring self. “I can barely breathe in here but, you, my dear, can take off your mask.”

A poke poke poke a tap tap tap

Under artificial glare a precision-guided judgment

1980s soothing music pipes in, at odds with the surreal quality that engulfs New York City’s Phase 2 reopening. Stores are open but empty of customers; or closed; or boarded up—either permanently or presumably recovering from recent looting. Citi-bikes run; and Revel-ers—kinda like Manila’s motorcycle angkas innovation—speed along ominously with no special license required. Otherwise, light vehicular and foot traffic followed me to the dentist. I let Dr. Lorman’s framed colorful photograph of Maui waves wash over me to lull the pain about to come from reopening a deep wound, and close my eyes.

Pulp-heart chamber hollowed numb-shaved

Decay excised stench free

A-swipe a-ching ching ching hundreds of dollars more to go —

“You’re good to go, dear.” I take his hand-held mirror, after I sit up for a mouth wash.

It’s there, though, a dull throbbing American ache

Ever-present flavors of fish sinigang, champurado, halo halo

Cold juice strained stained hot espresso mornings

Tenderloin Worcester smothered martinis shaken

with such fuss

Pus

Resealed for another lifetime.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”