Breakfast at 9, sharp
and it's vital time.

That large fat man
with the boyish face
tells me to come
on,
and I do

Pitter patter like
the hammers of
rain on the tin roof,
but my feet are in
rhythm. Jog will you,
jog.

Cold and blue, my skin
shows the roots and
highway of veins. I am sat
down, and grabbed like
a quick decision
purchase.

They twine it around my arm and
tell me to make a fist. I'm numb,
I say, I feel a fever.
The fat oily man
nods and
smiles.

Who's this lady,
tapping on my forearm?
Blue-blood, let me
go.
They're tapping into
the oil wells,
I think.

5 vials now, my pupils
are blurred. I am
spurting red into the
tube, this is not
the Gross
Clinic.

After it is
ceased,
a quick snap and
tape on the gauze.
I'm shoo'd out,
go eat.