Monday, July 11, 2011

Poison Ivy

At a recent writing group we had seven or eight minutes to write a poem with a given trite opening. Here is mine.

The Thing Itself
Life is like poison ivy. An unknown touch, a brush, a bump, a caress. Even Sophie, my trusty dog, can make the introduction. Poison ivy doesn't bother her so there's no need for a bark of warning.
And then, an ordinary day becomes electric.
An over-stimulation of skin and mind awake the day as never before.
A struggle to scratch enough fights with a struggle to leave it alone.
What's a man and his dog to do?

Scratch, scratch, scratch... what a mystery.

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