The boy who forgot how to smile…

I counted out my crooked teeth.

I once had thirty-two but lost a few along the way.

A couple even regrew when i was younger.

I got a quarter for a few I tucked under my pillow, once; 

It’s a few dollars shy of minimum wage,

but that never put food on the table anyways,

so it didn’t leave much to chew;

No harm, no foul.

One tooth I chipped and shattered

in solidarity with my mother,

a remembrance for every time I bit off more than I could chew.

I like to call it a small token of my pearly-white trash heritage 

that peeks through the back of every smile.

At least, my teeth were white

before the pack-a-day of Camel Blues and two pots of coffee (black) got to them.

Now, they're jaundiced, 

even translucent in places, like the teeth of a ghost or somethin; 

ornamental and dysfunctional.

At any rate, being a utilitarian myself, I figure it’s best not to use them much these days. 

Besides eating, I can't much think of what to use ‘em for.

I used to know when I was a kid but these days it's all but slipped my mind.