Waystation
He drew synovial fluid from my knee
Emptied the syringe into his mouth
He swished the fluid around like it was a fine French wine
Waited for an aftertaste in vain
I charged him half a pint of blood
Old-school but no less delightful
He thought this meant I’d want his name
But I assured him it was nothing personal
Right around midnight, a biker stopped by
Looking to trade some light gastric juices
Need to fill up my tank, he said
Apocalypse is on my tail
Ten years later and I’m still standing
Knees could sure use a break, though