Allyson Boggess
The arcade table in the corner of the waiting room
is rigged to work for free, no quarters necessary—
all we need is time before the hygienist
sticks her head through the door, calls the name.
Dear sister, I will fight you for control
of the game because I am always first
to take the mouthful of polish.
They ask which flavor
and I say mint please
but I never get it. I get the least-loved
fruit punch and an apology—
we are out of mint.
And when you are out there fleeing ghosts,
scoring points, I am in the chair
with my mouth open,
staring at the reflection in his glasses.