MRSA

it's never easy to walk a straight line
on my brother's twisted spine
he's a long-term paraplegic
with a short-term goal
of getting away from bed
without his MRSA sore burning hot and red
on his ass not his chest
it's an unwelcome guest
the hole looks like a lollipop crater
or the family tray that a waiter
would precariously balance as he
tip-toed on the floor
with food for four
and drinks for the house
the plug of puss looked like a mouse
with her nose stuffed full of cheese
asking for seconds, please
twitching her whiskers nervously
like the oars of a slave galley at sea
Billy had to endure the pain of discomfort
and avoid prolonged contact with his sore
he didn't want to be a bore
he stayed at home for several days
missed work, took sympathetic calls
he may not have working legs, but he's got balls
and a large fan base in Hondo and Castroville
who are praying that someday soon he'll
feel fine, again and write a book
so they can understand what it took
to heal a staph infection
which drilled into muscle
like Charlie Hustle
stole second and third, rounded home
and eye-balled some tasty bone