He was sitting in the waiting room
of the dermatologist's office, there
for his annual scan. Ten years
earlier, melanoma had appeared.
A surgeon had carved it out of his leg.
"I've brought my moles with me,"
he thought. "--The brown, the black-
brown, the raised, the flat, the cherry
red. I am," he thought, "a dotted man."
A woman came into the office.
Her hair was yellowish orange.
She ordered a bottle of special
shampoo. To the receptionist,
she said, "And I'm not homeless
anymore!" The man saw immediately
how rare and grand it was
to have an abode to return to.
To have an incoming stream
of the magical symbol, money.
to have a fed body dotted
with moles. To be ten years
out from melanoma.
He wanted to share his good news,
as the woman had done. He
admired her. He wanted to cry,
"My body is covered with a
wide variety of moles, and I
have a warm shelter to go to!"
But he remained silent. The
woman left. He picked up
a month-old magazine