Fleas
The parasitic wars through which we
Tolerate our pets. The pink bright
Crusts of furless skin like clowns’
Tights down the backs of legs—quick
Twists of necks to nip their bellies
And their butts, their appetites
Gone flat. Midnight we awaken from
A deep sweat, beds acrawl, red pustules
Like small berries tingling down
Our nail-gouged legs. But then,
Thighs swabbed with alcohol, we rise
To pamper them the more, feeling
World-wise and mature—ready
For our long imperfect lives.