SOUL TO SOLE

by Sherry S.   

A soul patch grows
below her lip.
A mustache–no,
it can’t be snipped.

She’s not a Bro
for whom it’s hip.
I think you know
psoria-Sis.

She can’t be kissed
without this catch:
torn skin’s a risk.
Protective masks

inhibit bliss
and cause new rash.
What fix exists
outside her grasp?

She must not scratch
her elbow patch.
Just soap and rinse,
apply a dash

of goop, no tints.
It’s not as bad,
since kisses there
don’t make her wince.

Her fanny pack
protects that patch
from playful smacks
her curves attract.

Each knee, alas,
has its own patch
she must not peel.
Each time she kneels
on floor or grass,
she feels ground glass.

As for her feet,
their skin is cracked.
Inflamed with heat,
they make a match.
Each tootsy has
its own sole patch.

*****