I think they’re supposed to be
but the abstract art in Dermatology
looks like an angry cluster
of pimples. I’ve stopped picking
the basal cells beneath
my wide-rimmed garden hat, the long
white sleeves of my shirt.
There’s a little boy with mom
and a bad sunburn beside me.
He’s playing with a rubber shark
that swallows his pinky finger.
I’m watching his tiny digits walk
across the cushion toward – What
do you think they’ll remove today?
The poppies blister in anticipation.
First publication: Turk's Head Review, July 2016