Earlier my wife
went across the street
to see the neighbour’s new kitten.
When she came back
she said the little guy has fleas.
So now I sit here
before the machine and think
fleas are biting me.
There is something crawling on my elbow.
I stop writing
and examine my elbow.
Nothing there.
Well, fleas are small. you can miss them.
Then it’s my ankle, so I raise my leg
and pull up the cuff of my pants and twist my leg
looking for parasites.
Damn it.
I go back to clacking on the keyboard.
Then it’s my neck.
I scratch there until it
feels like I’ve ripped the skin off.
I think about taking a bath.
I think about pouring gasoline in there.
It would not be wise to do this.
It might not kill the fleas.
Fleas have me thinking like an idiot.
I jump up out of the chair and go to the window.
I look out the window
and see the woman across the street.
She’s on the lawn with the kitten.
The kitten jumps up and down
and the woman jumps up and down.
They’re having a lot of fun
while I’m in misery.
I figure she must have
passed all the fleas on to my wife
and they are happy and flea-free over there.
I go back and sit down at the machine.
Suddenly there is
an itch in my arm pit.
I shove a finger in there
and wiggle it around.
I can’t write.
I can’t do anything.
There’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen cabinet.
I think it will solve
my problem or it will at least
make it more likely I do not care
if there are fleas crawling
all over me
like a hungry army
or if it is my suspicion
working in over-
drive again.
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