The Blood

Stanley was a lonely man,
skeletal frame housing Type A-negative.
A veinwork of pulses and streaks,
blue-blood beneath balloon-thin skin.
He was iron-deficient
but his heart thumped liked a great amp
and the corpuscles and capillaries played harmony...
a taunt string section of flow.

He donated quite regularly,
Red Cross calls & placards in the mail
informing him when & where.
Always the desparate need for more more more...
And Stanley in his isolated quiet way
felt pure.
Virginal.
Every successive donation
& every eager new mailing
eased his mind & well-being.
Let the nurse's needle puncture him--
no one else could.
No filth or debris polluted his lifestream.
He was a sexless ideal
a blood king adminstering to his unseen subjects.
He wouldn't want for more.
His fluids pollen...jabbed at & drained through tubes.

Always the same Masonic lodges & VFW halls,
drab panel places encroached by suburb.
Ranch-style and bland,
the padded tables arranged in square formations,
four prone bodies phalanxing white-shrouded women.
Chatty creatures with heavy accents.
Healthy-looking...raised on meats & milk.
Thick ankles & swift looks,
appraising the latest in line.
"Which arm? How are you feeling? Light-headed?"
Stanley was stoic & focused...
the ceiling light was a beacon as he fought the unseasy
sensations.
A wooden handle in his grip...
every 5 seconds he squeezed.
Sweaty palm & arm,
a taped sting reading off the ticking glue...
a dozen squirrels ran up & down his elbow, wrist...
hornets & bees & yellowjackets stung from within.
Stanley felt queasy
but this was his fight
and he did his best to remain resolute.

The snack table was filled with cheese crackers
& Loran Doones.
His iodine-sticky injection was the color of a bad tan.
He chose cranberry juice & watched the nurses hurry,
packing up plastic bladders...
spilling ice.
Chatty Kathy's indeed...
comparing their commute times, the return homes.
Stanley didn't envy them.
The strangers they came in contact with,
the soft oozing persuasions.
No, better to sit on the far-away throne.
No pestilence in the skins.
No worries...
Nothing but a dull throb in the chin.