Notes About The Poem
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TINY DEMON DRUMMER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You arrive uninvited,
a persistent houseguest~
the itch, oh, the itch,
a tiny demon drummer
living under my skin.
You’ve got a whole band,
tiny epidermal elves
with sandpaper hands,
scratching out a symphony.
Doc says stress, allergies are to blame,
a propensity in your DNA.
"Try this cream, it's a miracle!"
Miracles cost thirty bucks a tube
and smell faintly of old socks and hope.
I've tried everything~
Oatmeal baths that make me feel
like a breakfast cereal gone wrong and
creams so thick they could grout tiles,
that smell of desperation, a scent that screams,
"Please, just stop itching!"
All the lotions, the creams,
the steroid sonnets I smear on,
they only quiet you temporarily.
You’ll be back, with your tiny,
insistent drum song.
I scratch. I know I shouldn't.
The doctor glares, a silent disapproval.
But oh, the sweet relief,
that fleeting moment of bliss
before the fire returns,
brighter and angrier than before.
Oh eczema, you win!!
So, I’ll slather myself in
a lotion vaguely medicinal,
try not to scratch in public,
maybe, just maybe,
laugh a little at the absurdity of it all.
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