Which is why no biopsy.
Which is why no root canal.
Which is why the blood draw
made that simple stick
into a plum branch bruise.
I’m singing Lady Sings the Blues.
Panhandle Park is a bit attenuated,
too.
Easy to spot the blackbirds
in the sycamores,
as the branches denude.
What protects us
goes away. I get it now:
you probably still go bareback
as you were wont to then.
I needn’t tell you check the mirror
once in a while.
I know you do.
And that you’ll worry
if, like facts and blood,
you, too, begin to thin.
—for Haines Eason
Lunch Poems
Platelet Count Descending
A new poem by the author of Chronic, in which Lady Sings the Blues is intoned, sung, spoken, and hollered.
