I know the itch I can’t reach.
I know the one.
It’s on my back just far enough away.
My fingers can’t get to it no matter how much I want to relieve it.
I run to any person nearby to scratch it.
She misunderstands me.
I run to the next person, and he can’t follow orders either.
I think people should listen more.
No one else sees me because their backs are turned.
I feel it’s done purposely.
There are garbage cans on every corner.
They stink including the forks with food caked on them.
A used napkin is good enough in desperation.
I shouldn’t litter even though food will stick to my hand.
Nothing to see here as my arm reaches behind me.
You cross my mind as I get some relief.
The itch has stopped.
I know the one, returning when I least expect it.