An Itch

An itch. Itching, tingling, maddeningly persistently pestering behind your left ear. Absolutely un-ignorable, small yet brutally specific wildfire. One must sit immediately, instantly, worry about where and on what later, after the damnable blazing sensation has been extinguished.

Hell must be overflowing with such tiny tortures – oceans of itchiness no prying nails can ever reach. However, here, not in hellfire but sunny pleasant suburban backyard, cool grass, exciting chattering squirrels jumping through oak trees, back leg reaches perfectly, straining pleasurably to make contact, landing dead center first try.

“Good dog,” they say, seeing me scratch. It’s true. I am.