Glen Martin Fitch

POISON OAK Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

A gardener,
a semi-feral guy I knew,
adverse to clothing,
even shoes,
in searing sun or
rending rain
would chose to be outside.
Until we wondered
why one day on belly
in a bok choy bed,
mid berry bush and fern,
should howl with tears
of agony,
why after all these years
his seasoned skin swelled
itchy, raging red?
For me
I seek to monitor my mind
for prejudice,
my shadow's blatant slur,
lest word or act by me
might now occur
Once tough to gore,
once versed on what is right
I catch myself
betray a hostile slight.

Submitted: Thursday, October 17, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, October 23, 2013

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