MILEY CYRUS RAUNCHY DANCE!
I wait as in a coma
for Doc’s succinct elegance:
“It’s basal carcinoma.”
The doc already knows
the cancer is a bleeder.
In poking it up close,
he smells like mint and cedar.
He launches to the chin
a Novocain nuclear missile.
Where the needle’s been,
a goatee seems to bristle.
“Okay,” Doc says. “Looks fine.”
—Like nasty on raw chicken.
I say I met a guy online,
a well-read Republican.
On a first date with a dude,
might not a chin so oozy
rightly be construed
as something of a doozie?
The bleeder bled, absurd,
blooming florid as a lotus.
Yet the doctor reassured,
“Your Republican won’t notice.”
Events would soon affirm
partisanship as wonky,
I the silent pachyderm,
my date, the braying donkey.
I saw that it takes two to flirt
and swore by my chinny chin
that even politics advert
to faith in medicine.