Bedside Manner

Today I paid

a woman and a man

to undo the will of God.

As usual, one of my

insurance companies

was also involved.

"You're here for scrape

and burn," she declared

from the professional tone

associated with her scrubs.

(Don't worry

she wasn't my type.)

"You should really call it

something else," I quipped.

"It sounds like torture that way."

She broke out the technical term

with which I won't bore you

fourth wall be damned.

The doctor entered

and took a few photos

of my face with his iPad

like a pervert

for before & after records

in a medical file

that'll outlive me

with more grace

then proceeded to numb

six places on my face

citing the slight pinch

as though his hands

weren't as soft as 

the butter on my kitchen counter

in these dog days of August.

He suggested that I close my eyes

and his assistant turned on a light

fit for interrogation, its brightness

piercing my eyelids

like the end of that alleged tunnel.

I felt slight pressure

heard a quick sizzle

and smelled cooking pork.

I'd learned that aroma

twenty-two years ago

after foolishly grabbing

a screw that'd been heated

by the drill I'd used to remove it.

Men are pigs, according to

my social media newsfeed

so the correlation checked out.

This diabolical duo

finished removing the tiny cancers

from my most visible skin 

and applied round bandages

to half of the wounds.

"You can cover them all.

I get weird looks in public regardless."

Unaffected by my sophomoric humor

they ignored my statement

and advised me to stay out of the sun

while healing, like I wouldn't 

have done so anyway.

The receptionist took my card

for payment and begrudinginly

printed a receipt 

to stay in my good graces.

I left the practice with a fresh haircut

surrounding the face of a leper

and felt fine

until I found and returned the wallet

of a kid that had scurried out

ahead of me in the parking lot

and was irritated for the first time this week

when he didn't make eye contact

let alone thank me.

"Limited sunlight 

for seven-to-ten days."

You've got it, Doc.

They lied and said a leopard

can't change its spots.