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.
