Let me tell you about being
the last one that night

storm clouds billowing outside
as inside you gathered

your purse, slipped lunch bag
over shoulder and asked

if I was Smith to which
I answered no, nor could I tell you

where the paperwork was that trumped
your queue for going home.

When the vial of blood rolled off the desk,
I waited for some apology listening to rain

drops plinking on the sill alongside
my arm with its purple tourniquet holding in

the silence as you  jammed down cotton and taped over
the hole beside its twin not even two weeks old.

While I was invisible I memorized your face
and decided we would not be friends.