Bleached Teeth and Fake Bake

I saw her on the TV

in the waiting room,

looking old and rough as leather,

but thinking she was beautiful,

so young, so blond.

She was talking, talking, talking,

her mouth constantly moving.

                                                Look,

her teeth are too big for her face.

                                                   No my wife said,

It's the bleached teeth

and the unnatural tan.

She kept talking and talking

selling and selling,

but she didn't sell me.

I couldn't hear a word she said.

She was all

bleached teeth and fake baked.

Now there's this guy on my TV at home,

on the Sunday football pregame

Dispensing his wisdom,

Who will win,

Who will lose,

Injury reports,

Behind the scene stories.

He thinks he's the only one on the set,

another set of teeth,

too big, too white,

floating in space,

talking, talking,

selling his expertise,

his new book,

his website,

but he doesn't sell me.

All I can see

is his bleached teeth and fake bake.

Maybe they're married:

the man and the woman,

maybe they're together.

I can just picture it,

though I wish it couldn't:

Two weathered bodies,

pretending to be young,

two empty souls,

two sets of teeth

suspended in space, seemingly,

suspended by two leathery bodies:

hugging, kissing,

caressing, sweating,

biting, screwing.

But they're not trying

to sell me,

to screw me,

with what they are selling,

because I can hear

a word they say.

They're all

bleached teeth and fake bake.

*(Originally posted in the Antiquarian Librarian September 20, 2014)