142 Over 95

The cuff expands until the pulse

is a hammer against a locked door.

The nurse turns the screen away—

a silent, clinical score.

She writes it down in a red ink

that looks like a warning light.

Then the velcro rips open,

a sharp, synthetic bite.

I can hear the valves in my neck

fighting the news in my head.

I pay for the pills at the counter

and think about salt and white bread.

Or maybe I’ll wait until Friday.

No, I’ll pay. I can't afford the delay.