Doors

i thought i must be deranged
when the good doctor said it was basal-cell
carcinoma, but don't panic, it's small,
something like a centimeter in both directions.
sure, nature fascinated me, yet my interest
did not extend to admiring any form of cancer,
much less an ugly welt growing on my own sun-stained neck,
refusing to heal by tossing that unwanted small scab to
grow new, healthy skin over an existing resistant red hole.
i could reach it with my fingers and have my
way with it, touching and picking in some delightful
effort to convince myself it was simply a game, but
since the medical man stood by his opinion, i would
soon need to visit an experienced dermatologist to
have my unwanted friend removed before i fell in love with him
or her?  wait; does a cancerous growth have a sex?
within seconds of leaving the doctor's office, i saw my
reflection in a swinging glass door (the one next to two
fat men studying a painting of trees which seemed
to my eye to be unfinished) and my hair was combed perfectly
and wonderfully blond.  a young boys' suit fitted around my
shoulders, pants perfectly creased down to the ankles, and with
a smile which would turn out to be genuine, the image,
in our brief moment together, privately told me
"This will be the year of doors."