you can stop talking now

it's the lidocaine

that hurts,

squirted from

a needle beneath

my skin,

not the scraping

of a scalpel

against my scalp.

so how's your love

life,

the dermatologist

asks, trying to distract me,

as she

drops a piece

of my skin into a little

plastic cup,

then seals the lid.

it has it's ups and down,

i tell her.

you know.

it's not unlike a box

of chocolates out there.

i had a date last

weekend

with this girl from

Sperryville,

Misty, was her name.

okay, the doctor says.

you can stop talking now.

we're done.