This itch you cannot scratch is like a drug.
Unless you get it now you’ll go berserk.
There’s no one here to offer you a hug.
This snorkel is too flexible to work.
If you had been a yoga-class fanatic,
You wouldn’t need this piece of dry spaghetti.
It snaps, G*# d$*!, you stomp up to the attic,
But you can’t find the box with the machete.
Your golf clubs? Nope. Divorce apocalypse.
She sold the chain saw and the last pool noodle.
You go bananas with your fingertips.
It could be worse. You could have been a poodle.
You grasp at straws, go mad as all hope fades,
Try anything, a periscope, trombone,
To reach that place between your shoulder blades,
The itch that you will never scratch alone.
Rob Jackson has published two books of children’s poems (Animal Mischief and Weekend Mischief; Boyds Mills Press) and read his poetry on National Public Radio. Sometimes his poems are even accepted by journals, such as Southwest Review, Avocet, and Boston Literary Magazine. In his spare time, he’s an environmental scientist at Stanford.