Smiles

Our Smiles are given easily. Our culture wants a friendly face.

No tempering our enthusiasm. On the slightest win, embrace.

As we do, so we expect.  When we announce our victory,

We never ever would suspect their dim regard.  Suspiciously,

They look on us and silent, judge. Expression, always horizontal.

So unreadable, their faces.  Stubbornly un-orthodontal.

We entreat, all gums and teeth.  But surely, they are on our side?

Cold feet, they quietly retreat.  They shut the door.  They run and hide.

How dare they treat our kind like this! They peep through curtains, shake their heads.

It’s just as if we don’t exist!  By God!  We might as well be dead!

What is this “being on our own?”  We’ve always summoned forth a crowd,

Kow-towing to our every whim.  It’s quiet now.  We like it loud.

And can we make it, on our own? No firm support?  No blanket praise?

Without a friend who has our back, reflecting smiles, returning waves?

What use have we for perfect teeth, or orthodontia in our youth,

If no one will return our smiles, or like us back?  Such snaggle-tooths

And rampant anti-flossers, aren’t our bosses.  We don’t care.

What matter, if we lose the world?  Here in our palace, gilt and glare,

We’ll dance among the smoke and mirrors, smile, at our reflection there.

For a story about conflicting generational attitudes toward technology, read Twisting Wrenches. For a poem that compares COVID to a sexual predator at a cocktail party, read Opportunist.