Inventory of the Veins

The jumper cables are heavy, cold snakes

waiting for a spark to clear the frost.

I’m looking at my keys while the engine shakes,

tallying the things that I have lost.

The nurse asked for my type and I went blank,

searching for the letter and the sign.

I pulled a card from the wallet’s dark bank,

cracked and stained with a circle of wine—

no, coffee—an old, brown, bitter ring

covering the plus or the minus of the truth.

It’s a strange, generic, vital thing

to forget the basic wiring of your youth.