High Water Mark

The nurse slid the cuff up my arm,

plastic, cool, a plastic threat.

The pump began its steady harm,

a tightening I can't forget.

The numbers swam, a sudden blush

across the digital screen,

my own pulse in a frantic rush,

a landscape sharp and keen.

He said, "A little high, we'll watch,"

and wrote it in the chart.

But what’s a little high to catch?

A warning from the heart?

Or just the way the world feels now,

a pressure built inside,

a constant, low, unspoken vow

of where the stress can hide.