Skin is a bizarre conversation. / What's it matter that yours is smooth as butter / and hers is as wrinkled as a spoiled peach. / Of all the things to examine under the microscope, / why the mole, why the solitary hair, why the liver spot? / And yet you sit / discussing creams and solutions, / destructive wind, cruel central heating, / the gorgeous evil of the sun. / Your mother believes her death...