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.