After bathing in heavy cream,
I turn down the covers
of my Procrustean bed,
“itching” (as the song goes)
“like a man on a fuzzy tree”
who’s “gonna need an ocean
of calamine lotion.” Today,
an environmental justice blog
posted, “you won’t get a clean reading
from a tree used as an ashtray.”
Cryptic? Yes & my computer
crashed for good just as I asked
if climate change could cause
what feels like terminal skin-itch,
resistant so far to every possible
lotion & remedy. At five a.m.,
as I’m finally falling asleep, I wonder
which of my two recurrent bad dreams
I’ll experience: stranded in Whole Foods,
traumatized by the fifty different brands
of organic bone broth or boarding
a city bus whose suicidal driver
has decided today’s the day.
