Glen Sorestad – 2 poems

Blood Test, 7:00 a.m.

 

 

Rising from the warmth of a duvet to face a blood test,

before morning’s first coffee can pass your lips,

 

or the least morsel of food can boost your world,

before the show-off sun shakes up the eastern sky,

 

is not recommended for rational mortals. But here I am,

early morning, queued up outside the still-locked clinic,

 

with a motley of coffee-deprived grumps outside the door,

waiting for the lock to unbolt, opening the dam to a flood

 

of fasters, whose only non-violent thoughts are to get

inside, quick-bleed the demanded vials, then bolt back

 

home to an aromatic welcome of fresh-brewed coffee,

earthy toast, a favored cup, waiting with the daily paper.

 

🍃

 

Halo in the Casino

 

 

The Vegas slot machine generously generated

a fifty-dollar return on my twenty-dollar investment

in the ongoing welfare of the state of Nevada,

 

not to mention the unseen owners of this smoke-infested

emporium of electronic din. I pushed CASH, figuring

I’d recoup my original twenty, then play a bit longer,

 

courtesy of the casino’s largesse. When the machine

dutifully dealt my cash voucher, I tucked it away

for safe-keeping into my shirt pocket to redeem later.

 

I continued playing. A short time later, my wife

inquired from the adjacent machine, “Did you notice

that drunk young guy? The one who staggered against

 

our chairs?” But I hadn’t seen the guy at all – rapt

in the distracting cacophony and ceaseless movement

of the human zoo surrounding us. Hordes of them,

 

moving, sitting, standing wherever they could.

I would have gone right back to spinning reels,

except that’s the precise moment I noticed

 

my empty shirt pocket. I stared. I looked down

at my feet, scoured the floor around our machines.

I ‘d had a flashing neon bozo-halo over my head,

 

a red arrow pointing to my shirt pocket. Picked

and plucked. By a drunk who wasn’t.  Feel free,

dear reader, to write and add your own moral here.

 

 

🍃

 

 

Glen Sorestad is a much published and translated Canadian poet who lives in Saskatoon. His poems travel more widely and more often than he does.

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