Your surgeon
smiles
as you
shiver
with delight.
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;
things named
after
food.
Cottage. Cheese.
The surgeon
will hack
the cottage
cheese
away 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
