Spots
My son arrives from Tokyo
via Mullumbimby. Together
briefly after two years away
we settle in my hotel cafe
comparing notes and selves.
What will Andrew make of my aging?
To his ward, Penny, he observes:
‘Dad and I have identical
facial moles - see.’ Touching
his left sideburn and mine.
Young Penny exclaims: ‘this
runs in my family!’ and starts
touching where relatives
and she develop spots,
beauty spots in her case.
I mustn’t lean forward
peering into her shirt.
Son and I had better not start
exposing our blemished chests.
My mind recoiling reverts
to last week’s medical -
gung-ho young Dr Young
of MediSeven down the road
ran his expert eye everywhere
distinguishing harmless Spots
(many dozens) from Worries
(none just now, thanks!), saying
‘even the pale soles of your feet!
I remind people dark-skinned
Bob Marley succumbed.
No melanoma - yet.’
As we part, son says:
‘you’re OK, fit, alert!
Unlike my school friend now
dementing - early onset’.
So, we’d checked each other out.
Melbourne, July 2016
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