The itch that demands a scratch
right in the middle of the back,
the spot no amount of arm twisting
can reach, sends bears backing up
into trees to shimmy into rough bark
just right for scraping away annoyance.

The irritation that sends dogs into frenzy,
cats into paroxysms of agitation,
and me looking for someone,
anyone, with even the smallest
fingernails to go after the point that
my brownie-baking grandmother
would happily attack with gusto
for as long as I liked, saying,

Is that better, honey? More?

And when I’d nod or moan
my assent, practically bicycling
my leg like a happy dog, I relished
the pleasure of having another
lavish kind attention on my person,
this garage for my soul, still carting
me through six-and-a-half golden
decades.

May it always continue
with hugs and back scratches,
as much agreeable touch as one
can decently get in public, and
perhaps, with luck, the private brush
of caress, of cuddle, of embrace,
affirmation of endearment,
testament to true affection.