Dermatologist
by Troy Reeves

     "For he knows or frame; he remembers that we are dust,"
                   --Psalms 103:14
Forty years I have worked these yards of skin,
Harvested the fruit of these acres of hide:
Ulcers, bunions, boils, and warts,
Nodules, papules, pustules, and plaques.
I am the least god-like of physicians,
The most down-to-earth of the healing trade.
I treat diseased old wives named
Wisely as Adam the promenading creatures:
Strawberry marks, cherry spots,
Cold sores, felons, tags and wens,
Ringworm, corns, prickly heat--
Conditions to common their Latin names
Translate themselves into tattooed
Graffiti any layman can read:
Acne vulgaris, pruritis ani,
Balanitis of the glans penis.
To the bright, ambitious and debonair
I leave distresses of the dark inside:
Imbalances of the endocrine,
Hearts swollen big as Idahos,
And the ghostly torments of our time:
Hypoglycemia, chronic fatigue, TMJ,
Migrains, allergies, palpitations--
The fragile, tormenting demons that shy
>From the touch of our ancient art.
My business is skin. I cure what I see:
Palmfuls of eczema blistering like acid,
Melanomas crispy as crusts of flan,
Whole Arlington Cemeteries of genital warts,
Herpes pearling on innocent lips--
All that life rains down upon us
Simply for being human. And I think
I know why God, ignorant as He is of sin,
Chose to clothe His Son, the doctor,
In a seamless robe of skin.

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