More Than A Deficiency
If yellow invades my fingers, it is not
from obstinate dependence on nicotine.
God knows my health palpitates enough despite
the half-glass of wine I down every night.
Though I bend under this need to glut on
laundry starch and swallow someone else's dirt,
I confess being strong enough for nausea
before a platter of red meat. If my heart
fails me on hemoglobin production, it must be
from malaise. Lately I cannot keep count
of ferrous sulfate doses prescribed by doctors
much less unlock tightly sealed bottles.
Last night a vacuum salesman inveigled me
into buying a wrought-iron bed designed
for resting exhaustion, I hadn't the guts
to admit I'd rather have preferred a backbone.