Wood Tick
A tiny black wood tick
jumps from the tall grass onto
my ankle, past my sock, and
Crawls up stealthily and silently
up my left leg. Luckily,
my leg is super sensitive to its little feet.
The leg brain alerts the aware brain, and
I look down, spying her instantly.
I catch her on her way up, squash her
into the center of a tissue,
and toss her into the garbage can.
I feel smug, that I got her before she
could latch on, burying her head inside my skin.
I am the victor, here.
The champ.
The detective.
The one who did not get bit.
I wish my scalp
And my back
Were half as sensitive as my legs.
They have let me down time
and time again this summer,
allowing these annoying critters free reign
on their tasty free range.
And what help is my husband?
I don't LIKE wood ticks, he whines.
And he thinks I do?
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