142 Over 91

The prescription wasn't ready, so I sat

beside the blood pressure machine and put

my arm in. Why not. The cuff went taut,

filled up, then held. I watched it. The printout

came from the slot: 142 over 91.

I tore it off. Someone was being called

from somewhere down the aisle. Not mine. I run

the number back—not good, not catastrophe. Stalled

somewhere in between. I read it twice,

then three times. Folded it into my jacket.

The aisle light did its flat, indifferent thing. Nice

and bright and unaware. I let it sit,

the paper in my pocket.

The numbers already starting to fade.