His kidneys are on the outside
And I watch his blood
Pump through the lines
Delivering life
Back to his bones
He missed the poolhall
And his coffee
Smacking his lips together
To taste the cream coat his tongue
And the sugar
Stain his lips
He talks to me like I am Santa Claus
“I miss my potatoes, I miss my hair.”
Machines echo like crickets
Mr. Farmer has a cramp
And the artist man across the way
Bites his tongue
Before the picture
He is delivering
I can see his blood
And Mr. Farmer’s
Wrap and wind
Like ropes of red licorice
Through the machines
They chirp and hum sterile mating calls
Mr. Farmer still has a cramp
And I raise my head
Distracted by his uneasiness
A clamp tightens
On my skull
They give him dextrose
He moans, breathing out hard
With tight lips
Phyllis is done
And her machine rings
Like a doorbell.
Three minutes to snack
Junior beckons
The machine must eat.