Poison Oak Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

A gardener,
a semi-feral guy I knew,
adverse to clothing,
even shoes,
in searing sun or
rending rain
would chose to be outside.
Until we wondered
why one day on belly
in a bok choy bed,
mid berry bush and fern,
should howl with tears
of agony,
why after all these years
his seasoned skin swelled
itchy, raging red?
For me
I seek to monitor my mind
for prejudice,
my shadow's blatant slur,
lest word or act by me
might now occur
insensitive,
intolerant,
unkind.
Once tough to gore,
once versed on what is right
I catch myself
betray a hostile slight.