American Life in Poetry

Lots of us find ourselves under the interested fingers of dermatologists, who prosper on the fun we once had out in the sun. Here George Bilgere of Ohio, one of our most amusing American poets, sits back in his skin doctor’s chair and reminisces about a party that took place years ago.

Basal Cell

The sun is still burning in my skin

even though it set half-an-hour ago,

and Cindy and Bob and Bev and John

are pulling on their sweatshirts

and gathering around the fire pit.

John hands me a cold one

and now Bev comes into my arms

and I can feel the sun’s heat,

and taste the Pacific on her cheek.

I am not in Vietnam,

nor is John or Bob, because

our deferments came through,

and we get to remain boys

for at least another summer

like this one in Santa Cruz,

surfing the afternoons in a sweet

blue dream I’m remembering now,

as the nurse puts my cheek to sleep,

and the doctor begins to burn

those summers away.