It’s possible these hives are not:
There is no round, pink, bulbous spot
Emerging from the freckled plane
Of my forearm, and I’m insane,
Imagining these dermal blights
Embrailling elbow pits at heights
That drive the bites of fleas or ants
To writhe an I’m not worthy dance.
It’s possible, but still they itch.
Spring allergies are such a bitch.

We’re Blowing It

I grew up military
All my friends were service spawn
At least three generations
Of my kin had unis on

I honor and respect this land
And all those who protect it
When one who doesn’t’s in command
It’s on us to correct it

The office and the occupant
Are very different things
I head to bed each night with dread
For what tomorrow brings

This president’s an insult
To the servicefolk who serve him
So drop the smirk you selfish jerk
You’ve shown you don’t deserve ’em

Today we mark the memory
Of those who fell in war
I dream that we someday will be
Again worth fighting for

A nation where those most in need
Find shelter and self-worth
Lest those we honor shall in vain
Have perished from the earth