Itch

We are two lonely people in a pool
of pox, always coming together this way;

it took you this long to copy the brown
mess I called a face, going through

a rough patch, I made the most jokes
about how fortunes came together

for you, like a heap of loose rocks
standing like a mountain, we borrowed

birds to stay silly, called a chugging
engine a Porsche,

drew bulls in gardens with a house
smoking chimney on the far side,

we hung clouds close to the ground
and decided the best way to stick

around in each other’s lives would be
never to meet, or maybe meet one day

when the closets in your home had doors,
but meanwhile find a way to relate

through the exchange of itches and screams
from the call of the pox.

First published in itch