"bloodworks" by J. R. Wilkerson

how does it look,

from a distance

as i flail at this

nuisance of mosquitos

from my car to the clinic,

as they wave me on

at the front desk

to the jungle room

you see,

they know me here

but this ain’t graceland

there’s pictures of

monkeys and macaws

a plastic palm tree,

canned-in 80s pop anthems

in spite of,

not having the time of my life

still i shuffle across vinyl tile,

inspecting cabinets

plenty of bandages,

rubber gloves

peeping the rubbish bin when

dirty dancing fades to

dancing in the dark

and like a boss

i’m at the mirror, checking my look

comparing faces

with the pain scale poster

looking a four, but

hey baby

feeling an eight

a quick knock, 

the door swings wide

our nurse, brandishing a spectrum

of colored vials

in mid-conversation,

i’m catching the tail-end

she’s hissing at some barbara 

behind her

something

about date night when

wham

starts in carelessly whispering

nurse lowers her voice

babs has a thing for

boxers

even lower

third one this year

takes out

a tourniquet

wraps it tight, says 

just a lil pinch

a whiff of isopropyl

somewhere

an ambulance wails

i say to myself, right

it’s just polka dots

only jellyfish floating

in the air, on the walls

lost in a saxophone riff,

i’m several bars deep before

the stinging slap,

a crimson rorschach

she says

whoa sir please

steady on

stay with me 

sir you were fading 

on me

oh, surely

i reply

why not partake of ankles,

elbows

why not indulge a

little longer

J. R. Wilkerson is a DC-area poet by way of the Ozarks. His scribblins have been featured in Roi Fainéant Press, Voidspace, Memezine, The Broken Spine, dadakuku, and elsewhere.