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Shot In The Arm

Shot in the Arm


My life, so full of variety,
reduces to ongoing anxiety
when I get my doctor's letter:
"raggindragon, you had better
have some blood work done
at the Lab." My thoughts become one -
some idiot at the Lab
will take a needle and stab
it in my elbow fold.
Oh, it won't hurt, I'm always told.
But does it ever never hurt at all?
If so, I can't recall.

Visiting the Lab is always a bummer.
The first requirement is Take a Number.
The receptionist scans my medical card.
Did you eat these past twelve hours? Not a shard!
As if to verify that truth, she
hears my stomach growl uncouthly.
Take a seat; you'll hear your number called.
I waited. The old man snored, the baby balled.
Finally! Number thirty-nine.
I got into another line
of folks standing grimly in their places.
People with arms crooked - painfully no doubt -
but with smiles on their faces
were on their way out.

Neeexxt! That's me, I believe.
Take a seat, roll up your sleeve.
You'll only feel a pinch.
She punctured me from side to side
Were I a baby, I would have cried.
"Shall I take it out? " she toned.
"No. No. Get it done! " I moaned.
The bruise that formed was half an inch!

Now I too crooked my arm -
out of the way of harm!
I put a smile on MY face
and left the place.


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