O-Something

She asked my type. I didn't know.

Head-tilt. Like I'd missed a stair.

Vial filled—dark in the fluorescent glow—

she wrote my name wrong. Didn't care.

Cotton taped to the crease of my arm.

Engine running in the lot.

Forty years of blood and no alarm

at never knowing what I've got.

I check the mirrors. Never check the hood.

The vial's on its way to someone

who'll read me better than I could

and file it where the knowing's done.