Blood Draw

I walk like an old truck
with a bent frame
ready to wander off the road
into a head-on crash
or drift into the ditch
but somehow maintains
its direction down the center
of the slow lane.
I find the raised chair,
lift my arm to tube
and needle, make small talk
as the oil runs out,
the tread of my fingers
unleashes the gripped ball,
and I dream of the road
and the next five thousand miles.



About the Poet:  Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He has work in Spry, The Monarch Review, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review Poetry Prize.



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