blood test

They’re going to jab a needle
at my arm;
I’m hoping that my spirit
feels no harm:
it’s haunting my pale hide
in mild alarm—
I’m running out of nonchalance
and charm.

Those needles look too long to
fit in veins;
veins curve and suffer strange
and subtle pains:
and how much blood must I,
to live, retain?
and how much will they drizzle
down the drain?

I wish I’d flown some other way
this morning,
or heeded clouds that warned me
skies were storming;
instead I’m here while someone
like a nurse
prepares to stab my vein or eye
or worse.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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