Epistle^3 Poem by Morgan Michaels

At the entrance I sneezed-
a nearby construction worker said 'God bless you'.
'What's', I thought, 'next',
when construction workers begin calling the blessings of the deity
down on passing geezers'.
I thanked him, nonetheless, and went in-
inside, the waiting room was empty
and in no time at all, I heard
'Come in, come in',
'Yes, that's a seborrheic keratosis', said the nice dermatologist
eying my posterior lower leg, below the knee-
the area called the popliteal fossa
(fossa being Latin for 'cave'.)
'It's sun-related', he added, leaving me to unravel the implications.
He was tall, tanned, sixties-fair
wore a freshly laundered lab coat
clear blue eyes and an amused, well-scrubbed look,
'with no malignant potential', he added, eyes twinkling, 'whatever'.
I didn't think so and merely muttered 'sins of my youth'
(recalling Aphrodesias and the fierce Turkish sun)
as he reached into a drawer and withdrew
a plump tube of....