Itching

It might be the climate Or maybe the heat Which blasts our apartment And will not retreat… But every winter, My skin starts to itch And nothing relieves it. (I’ve heard every pitch.) I’ve tried every lotion And many a cream Yet still I’m so itchy I just want to scream. It’s not a disease But a seasonal woe. When spring rolls around, It will vanish, I know. Still, three months of scratching, Which no one condones, Will leave me near skinless, A bucket of bones!