Encrusted on my canines
Are names of men and women
I sharpened with lust into diamond-
Tipped pick-axes to chip
Away at plaque
Matted against softer tissue,
All transpiring in the dorms
Of the wise, the handicap stall
In the Ybor Honey Pot, Tahoe
Trunk in St. Paul’s parking
Lot. The bodies, in memory,
From those nights appear cadaverous,
My molar teeth stained from knowing
and the gaps between
Plugged with phantom rotten flesh.
Nicholas Finch is a writer, coach, and educator in Southwest Florida. He has the most incredible 8-year-old son. Finch’s writing and other projects can be found at finchandcrown.substack.com.
The Dilettante 
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