There is an 80 percent survival rate
the intake person tells me
as she notes blood pressure, weight, pulse.
Later a technician will pierce my body,
hang me upside down
and drain life force like blue water
from a faucet into glass beakers.
In the waiting room,
shells of selves waste away
like buckets of bait.
The other 20 percent?
All for a good cause of course:
to save this puerile species of technicians
and intake persons from harm.
They never even asked.