February 4, 1986
I worked an entire weekend, Saturday and Sunday, repairing a fence and installing a gas pipe. As I toiled, a tree crew was taking down a madrone.
My client had no fireplace. Score! I loaded about a cord of unsplit firewood into my truck and brought it home.
Nobody mentioned at the time that the trunk had been covered by poison oak. By Tuesday, though, it was obvious.
I have severe reactions.
I could try to write poetry that's uplifting, or inspirational, or philosophical. Mostly, though, I just try to be true:
Bumpy red rash
head to toe
and it itches, itches, itches.
I'll scratch 'til it bleeds,
cursing at sons
of bitches, bitches, bitches.