Dear Dr. Watskin,
Color drained from my client’s face
when I named the culprit in her case.
Though a dermatologist you are not,
I know you will appreciate this plot.
Sadly, I can always count on vanity
to keep me in business (ironically).
Though this case was rather inane,
it managed to humor my left brain.
The client arrived on Baker Street,
last Sunday it was, rather discreet.
A picture of a bracelet she showed,
disgustingly ornate, 22 carat gold.
Feeling betrayed, she fired her maid,
but this, it turned out, was a band-aid
because the bracelet was still missing,
and now for my help she was wishing.
A quick glance at photos on her phone,
and I knew she needed triamcinolone,
not for her, but for her daughter,
the entitled thief of the hour.
She called me a liar and left in a haste,
as if it would save her fall from grace.
How did I know, you might ask?
The truth stood out like a rash.
A contact dermatitis isn’t hard to spot
when you’re in the right train of thought:
a pink patch on a wrist isn’t just a blob,
clear-cut borders make it an outside job.
A shame to have a gold hypersensitivity
(maybe it’s karma, not my business really).
Avoidance and steroids will certainly cure,
but teenage angst? I’m not so sure.
To see is not necessarily to observe,
we don’t see what we want to preserve.
As per usual the devil is in the details,
and in this case, it was in the T-cells.
*With themes adapted from Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes