tHE mAsS oF MEn LivE lIVeS

The chigger in my shin is gone now.

I only knew what it was once I'd extracted it,

with the aid of reading and magnifying glasses.
I've had it for days, wondering why it hurt so much

and how I'd incurred it, a little reddish-brown mark,

good likeness to a scab.

                                        At the same time,

I am trying to be mindful, stay sane

and not think, for the moment, about

the ongoing insurrection. So forgive me

my teeny-tiny spider-larva navel-gazing.

I've lived so long—since just before JFK

was shot—and never had a chigger,

never had to fear my nation

was under attack by 

a chunk of its populus.

                                        How I got it.

Forgetting Girl Scout fundamentals

about dressing for high grasses and brush,

I walked through an overgrown lot

with the dog on our way to the river

wearing shorts and ankle socks (I think

I may have other chiggers, elsewhere

on my body). It's September

and yeasty out there.

                                On top of insurrection,

pandemic! on the disco-ball globe,

which just happens to be the only place

we know. I face a class of live students in 48 hours,

and I'm afraid I've forgotten how to teach

with their bodies surrounding me,

both dangers and buoys, and how

will I hear if everyone is masked?

It's the babies that get you, with chiggers.

They wait passively for your grazing flesh

and know in an instant you're what they need.

For several clueless days, mine hung out on me,

getting vital nourishment until I tweezed it out.

No harm except skin irritations, which shouldn't scar.