Pan of Popcorn

I pull my teeth out of my mouth and put them in a pan coated in oil dripping out from under my oven. I put it over the small campfire made of torn carpet and cover the pan with a piece of ceiling, shaking it with a flick of my wrist. The TV doesn’t work anymore, but I can see some images in the shattered glass on the floor. Thirty-two kernels doesn’t make enough for one serving of popcorn. After the last big flash, nothing seems to satisfy me anymore. I’m tired of tasting blood from my gums and want something crunchy to eat. But then I remember I have no more teeth to chew with anymore, so I’ll just eat whatever I can. I shake the pan again. I listen for the pop, but it never comes. The last big pop took away my hearing anyways. I sense something scurrying under the lid, so I lift it.

Instead of popcorn,
thirty-two dandelion
seeds flutter away.