swimming above
these fleas
at my feet,
if using my big toe
as a diving board,
and into the pool
of my skin looking
for free blood-
these backbiters,
moocherswho
let these little
annoyances in my door,
looking for an
overcoat to slumber
the night or month,
a rug in the corner
snug of warmth-

snoring below,
two fans blowing
three flies buzzing
in the basement
of summer mildew,
uncle stan sits,
out of a job
and still
able to afford beer
in his hand
help-wanted ads,
cigarette butts
stamped out
in a skull shaped
ashtray.
he always explains,
they are looking for
only experience,
a little something
to go along
with a degree
and I say why not
bluff them,
go to the library
study the subject
and bring it in
the interview,
do what you do
well, tell a
lie,
frost it white-
lay it out on the table
feed them baloney and
rye,

and I say that
even a dishwasher
knows no more
than soap and water,

sometimes he just
gets under my skin,
so much
I would like to kick
him out to the dogs.