Scratch

In the middle of my back I
feel the itch of an attack by
an annoying bitch mosquito
(which I guess still has to eat) so
watch the bulge distort my torso
like a molehill only more so;
wish I'd thought to take a photo
as I morph to Quasimodo--
just a hunch from Monsieur Hugo
to explain my bulging bubo
but my thoughtful diagnosis
isn't postural kyphosis;
no, my back grows a proboscis
and my sanity is lost 'cause
now I'm grunting like a proto-
lithic trog who's eaten toad or
found the magic of the mushrooms
makes his mutant back too much to
bear, so scratch! I swear the bump
will grow like Banner's bulk
beyond my shirt, this lump will
show its hulking hideous heinous
form, its aching itching gayness--
more than any man should suffer
(even if this man was tougher),
and the likeliest prognosis
is my hump's apotheosis,
to be swelling, all consuming
god-bump, hosting a small human...
so I beg you, quickly, quickly,
till my back is smeared and slick leave
no red wheal unturned or hacked, I mean,
Could you please scratch my back?