Systolic

The pharmacy is empty, the aisles are cold.

The fluorescent humming feels brittle and old.

I sit in the chair with the vinyl seat

and listen to the sound of the rain on the street.

The cuff starts to swell, a heavy, tight band.

I watch the slow pulse in the back of my hand.

Then the velcro lets go with a sudden, sharp tear,

and I am left in the silence, just sitting there.

The red numbers blink on the face of the screen.

They reflect in a scuff where the floor isn't clean.

The heart is a pump that is starting to fray.

The machine has nothing but numbers to say.