Sweet Tooth and Mueslijaw
He's stuck for a word. He strokes me absently, to soothe himself. He calls me Muse. (Short for Muesli?) I gurr. He chain-chews today it's fudge — when a sourness inside sets his teeth on edge. His energy is spent on mastication and slow denticide.
And oh, the pangs of toothache, amplified by liberal, healthy-eating guilt! He runs to the bathroom, brushing till the gums are meaty-raw. Before the mirror, ear to ear, he bares his soul; he buffs and flossifies the grin that in an honest ape means fear.
Now he worries his pencil, chews the cud of mealy-mouthed words that moo and bleat cropping his field. They leave it neat and sonnetized. They milk and mueslijaw life, death, the lot; not one draws blood. I yawn, white wicked tooth and claw unsheathed: what the likes of him ignore. He strokes. And yelps. My claws sink in: a little haikupuncture . . . Will it bring him to his senses? I'm a faithful Muse, bearing gifts to his feet, all paddy-paw: beheaded fledglings, catatonic shrews.
Philip Gross
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