Blood draw

 

I waited at the red light,

a white fold of gauze

taped to my tan arm.

A man with a red beard

crossed in the walk

and sticking out of his black backpack

was one long-stemmed red rose.

Now I am not a religious man

and colors and coincidences

are only that for me,

but I prayed my blood

was red enough

for another year –

at least.

I think I can wait

a minute

for the colors to change.

It will only seem like years;

and years

will seem like minutes.

And then the man with the red rose,

turned and walked west

and I drove on to the east.

Just a little stick,

she had said.

We had laughed a little about people

preferring one arm or the other.

Nothing to it,

I thought.

Walking out the door,

I told her I would

forget how she had stuck me in another minute.
And then I would forget her.

And then the man with the red beard.

And then my prayer

pulsing through

my veins.

And a long-stemmed red rose.