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!
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