The Red Cross won't stop calling the house

The Red Cross won't stop calling the house.

They want what’s inside of the vein,

like a cat that has cornered a mouse

in a cycle of duty and pain.

I sat in the clinic, a file in my lap,

and stared at the black-inked stamp.

It feels like a trick or a permanent trap

under the hum of a fluorescent lamp.

Type O Neg. The letter and sign

mean I’m built to give it all back.

There’s nothing in here that is strictly mine

in the folder of white and the ink of the black.