Inner Workings

I scrubbed the grease until the skin went pink,

right where the blue veins branch and start to climb.

It’s thinner than a person likes to think,

a shallow grave for all our borrowed time.

The nurse’s fingers felt like ice on bone,

counting the ticks inside my frantic blood.

I stood there in the sterile room alone

and felt the valve begin its heavy thud.

The watch is gone, the tan has faded out,

leaving a ghost of where the metal sat.

It’s just a map of every fear and doubt,

and life is nothing more or less than that.