Barefoot in the Bookstore
At the bookstore my foot itches uncontrollably
I can hardly believe a mosquito got me already
its so early for biting and stinging and scratching
please give me at least a couple of weeks in the yard.
The crows are taking over the mockingbird’s tree
between them and the squirrels the racket makes the dog insane
and I can’t even finish a line without leaning down
and unbuckling my shoe and exposing to air
the flaming insult already scratched raw,
I am tempted to pour hot coffee on it
scalding is better than this ungodly skin crawl.
Someone across the bookstore is staring as if
a bare foot was somehow obscene
and I wonder if he has a yard full
of dappled sun and gentle breezes
that turns into The Planet of Bugs.
Even the bats wheeling overhead at dusk
grow fat but barely make a dent
in the population,
and now their numbers further reduced
by the white nose disease and broken hibernation.
I know the hostas need thinning
and they would fill in that bare spot under the tree
but there are slinky, slimy things in the earth,
I am sure my yard holds so many more
than anyone else’s.
After all, when we moved in, we had to spend weeks
battling legions of spiders whose webs
enclosed every doorway and window each morning
no one wanted to be first starting the day
and the dog stood whining by the back door
Knowing the squirrels were getting away.
Not much to be done on street in a neighborhood
where a junk car in the backyard is required
and feral cats without tails, and missing legs and eyes
brazenly yowl under the windows and sleep on the patio,
their scent drives the dog crazy and she can smell them
through the walls, following them with her nose
from driveway to yard - we put up barricades
to keep her from jumping through the windows.
And finally, this litany of wild kingdom complaints
has tamed the sensation in my foot just enough
so I can drink my coffee and read my magazine
still feeling a little cheated because
it is too early for mosquitoes
and I know, back at home the dog is barking
incessantly from deep in the house, at the crows.
At the bookstore my foot itches uncontrollably
I can hardly believe a mosquito got me already
its so early for biting and stinging and scratching
please give me at least a couple of weeks in the yard.
The crows are taking over the mockingbird’s tree
between them and the squirrels the racket makes the dog insane
and I can’t even finish a line without leaning down
and unbuckling my shoe and exposing to air
the flaming insult already scratched raw,
I am tempted to pour hot coffee on it
scalding is better than this ungodly skin crawl.
Someone across the bookstore is staring as if
a bare foot was somehow obscene
and I wonder if he has a yard full
of dappled sun and gentle breezes
that turns into The Planet of Bugs.
Even the bats wheeling overhead at dusk
grow fat but barely make a dent
in the population,
and now their numbers further reduced
by the white nose disease and broken hibernation.
I know the hostas need thinning
and they would fill in that bare spot under the tree
but there are slinky, slimy things in the earth,
I am sure my yard holds so many more
than anyone else’s.
After all, when we moved in, we had to spend weeks
battling legions of spiders whose webs
enclosed every doorway and window each morning
no one wanted to be first starting the day
and the dog stood whining by the back door
Knowing the squirrels were getting away.
Not much to be done on street in a neighborhood
where a junk car in the backyard is required
and feral cats without tails, and missing legs and eyes
brazenly yowl under the windows and sleep on the patio,
their scent drives the dog crazy and she can smell them
through the walls, following them with her nose
from driveway to yard - we put up barricades
to keep her from jumping through the windows.
And finally, this litany of wild kingdom complaints
has tamed the sensation in my foot just enough
so I can drink my coffee and read my magazine
still feeling a little cheated because
it is too early for mosquitoes
and I know, back at home the dog is barking
incessantly from deep in the house, at the crows.
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