Extra draft: Nondiagetic Prose Poem

In this terrible room in the light of this whorehouse lamp I am prying at a tooth, an incisor, half black on the back and set deeper in the mouth. Outside it is cold and fat kids on skateboards take the hill down to the apartment complex through the woods, and I shoo them like cattle on the way to the grocery story for processed cheese blocks--the food of all those cats on couches near OLympus, distinctly American--and on the road there, past the Tire Exxpress and the 12 for Life the tooth dances cricket-like. Songs on radio, no phone calls, a tracking device they pay me $25 a month for my data, my raw numbers, irreducible data reduced and compressed like the sub-100Hz through the subwoofer, but I grab the tooth that plunged through my lower hairless lip leaving a scarred straw hole when I pushed a skateboard in my parents' garage, listening to Dead Milkmen & Status Quo, a skater shooed into a box with a recessed incisor.