Hopping Sad

My sweet, expired kitty cat
Is haunting me. It’s either that
Or she bequeathed her favorite flea
To me in perpetuity.
She must have known I’d not be bored
So long as there’s a hopping horde
Of parasites to raise a toast
To me, their most congenial host.
Deploying seven cans of Raid
Brand fogger would, I thought, put paid
To all the open flea accounts,
But not so much. The interest mounts
As does their interest in my feet
And ankles. How does one defeat
An enemy whose tiny size
Means freckles make a fine disguise?
I glance and slap and gouge my shin;
Turns out it’s only melanin
In clumps upon my dermis, while
Behind my knee the vermin smile.
Listen: Can you hear the purr
Of my late cat? It’s thanks to her
Alone is what I’ll never be.
Excuse me, time to feed the flea.

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