Your surgeon
smiles and you
shiver.
He says he will
remove twenty
years from your
face but he
does not say
to where.
He palpates
your thighs
and finds
little lumps
of flesh.
Cottage. Cheese.
The surgeon
will hack the
cottage cheese
from your thighs
for an extra
thousand dollars.
You hate him for
this, this man
who makes
so much less
for so much
more, but
oh, what can
you do?
You’re more
than a face;
you’re a torso
too.
Art and Poetry (c) Rob Goldstein 2013/2017
