I get up hoping it's Friday.
But it's not. It's Saturday.
Close enough.
All night up and down,
Ice in a sock
Behind my right ear,
Cooling the blackfly bites
I suffered hoeing
In a damaged climate,
Careful not to disturb
The woman still sleeping
On the other side of the bed,
But that's only damp pillows,
Not an unconscious wife.
Old force of habit, I guess.
Grandma always told me
Not to scratch it.
But it's always worse in the night.
