Punched in the gut

I saw an allergist this morning. Lying on my stomach, the nurse scratched tiny patches of skin on my back. She pricked me with allergen probes and walked out the door leaving 36 little Spears sticking out of my skin. "I'll be back in 15 minutes,"she said.
So this it what's it is like, saying to myself to be a bacteria in a Petri-dish.
Within a few minutes it felt as if small armies of foot shoulders were digging fox-holes through the skin on my back.

The doc opened the door and sounded surprised, "you do have allergies."

I am allergic to dogs.
How is it possible for kind of news to properly sink in?
I am allergic to the desert. The cottonwoods, the cedars, the junipers and the sages.
This news would be like telling the tree to move to a cave. I could moves next to the big waves. I like how the ocean helps me understand my emotions. I could move to NYC. I like how the hum of humidity sounds like notes on a scale.
I could have Jessie and Boone evicted, but then I could lay my neck on a rail for a train.

Ken




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