Sangrita

It may have been a bad time
but I was thinking about blood again;
mine, specifically--
the Most Precious kind.

Was it the same batch
that had been swimming
through my arteries and veins
as when I was a kid?
Had it suffered the same losses
won the same battles
and could it go another round of either?

Was there some cellular contest
to see which Reds and Whites
could stay inside this Shell the longest?
Or were they dying to get out
dry up, flake off, and blow away?

Was it really blue when lacking oxygen
like they tell you when you're young?
And what's with the copper taste?

My thoughts regrouped and acknowledged
that there's another blood drive
at my union hall in a few weeks
that I won't be able to attend
since the sight of a needle dangling
from my arm makes me dizzy and nauseous.

Luckily, a friend said he'd sit in
on my behalf for the second year in a row--
the greatest birthday gift
one could ask for.

But if I were forced, how would I get out of it?
Me: "I've been tattooed in the last year."
Nurse: "Times are tough, we can ignore that."
Me: "I'm a bit of a coward, no one would want mine."
Nurse: "Come on now, it won't hurt."
Me: "Can you save me a vial? I have a letter to write."
Nurse: "Maybe you're not the best donation candidate."
Bingo. I had the answer, and without lying.

The shampoo got in my eyes
and distracted me momentarily.

"I'm a lot of things
but a bleeder
isn't one of them,"
I told the shower curtain.

My Track Record suggested
I check the color of the bubbles
floating in the wake
and reevaluate my stance.

The soap slid from my hands.
I almost slipped and fell
while intercepting its descent.

The shower curtain and my Track Record
laughed in mocking unison.

It was getting harder to be right.