I have a pack of cats at home;
I wish I hadn’t got ’em.
Their dander hair is everywhere,
I’m hives from top to bottom.
I always keep my promise, though,
So what else could I do?
I said, If Donald Trump’s elected
I’ll start grabbing pussies, too!



I’ll stand up to stray raccoons
I’ll play your favorite song on spoons
I’ll carve you valentines in runes
But I won’t mow the lawn

The pollen makes my eyelids swell
My alveoli start to gel
I gain a painful sense of smell
Until the hives have gone

The neighbors say their eyes are sore
Complain our curb appeal is poor
But I don’t listen anymore
Because my ears are stuffy

All right, you win, I’ll cut the grass
Then spend the weekend on my ass
Until the histadizzies pass
I hope you like me puffy

Dispatch From The Field

Day 3: Approaching normalcy.
The histamines are in retreat;
My sinuses are nearly free
Of mucus, like an empty seat
At rush hour on a crosstown bus.
The lawn is mocking, beckoning:
Don’t mind the weeds, come play with us!
It’s not their day of reckoning
Just yet. Though they’ve defeated me
In spring’s first skirmish, this is war.
Grow, broadleaf, massive as a tree!
That’s what my Fiskars Stand-up’s for.

Ahchoose Wisely

Hypo-allergenic people
Live in different worlds. They’ll keep a
Lot of tissues for a guest
And just assume they’ll pass a test
Administered by proctors who
Admit a histamine or two
With every tiny flower belch.
That false assumption we should squelch
Right here and now: If it’s not strong
And soft and two-ply, then it’s wrong.
It’s not their fault. In fact, they’re blessed!
I’ll pack my own, though. That’s just best.

Plymouth Fever

My eyeballs are itchy
My stomach is off
My throat has grown scritchy
I’ve also a cough

I don’t mind revealing
A deal of bad feeling
Twixt vision and me

I’m rash wrist to elbow
I’ve hives on my shins
And my buttocks as well (though
I don’t show my friends)

The flesh on my philtrum’s
Rubbed raw from wiped snot
Are May flowers welcome?
Ah-choo! No, they’re not.