Fixed Point

The nurse pumps the bulb and my pulse

thumps against the Velcro sleeve.

I look up, avoiding the needle’s tray,

to the same white squares of the ceiling

I’ve memorized since I was seven.

The fluorescent light is a sickly hum.

Inside the textured plastic lens,

a fly has been a black, dried husk

for a decade or more.

It’s the only thing in this room

that isn’t trying to get better.