I have a poem in my pocket called itch.
It doesn’t have a name, and it certainly doesn’t have a first or last line.
For all I know it might be an epic, or an epigram.
I don’t know when it’s going to come out, when it will reveal its proclivities, what it’ll mean to my grandchildren.
If it collapses, I don’t know how I will feel.
If it turns into a cancer, I don’t know what I’ll do about it.
I don’t think there is a cure – but there might be a remission.
Louis is an English Setter, probably failed his training as a gundog.
Someone gave him to a rescue centre in Cork. All he wants is attention.
He’s a bit of an itch.
He might be the hero of the poem.