arms poked and prodded until a vein relents
and blood runs freely into the vial,
urine caught and analyzed under microscopes
for a lifetime of dietary mistakes,
stool scraped and scrutinized
to see what afficts me,
and life —
so much life
wasted in waiting rooms —
then I finally understand Bronte’s concession,
“There’s little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave.”