The Blood Pumps

The blood pumps.
Thick, dense, murky blood.
Caffeine corrupted.
Nicotine polluted.
Fouled, abused and sticky
It wheezes its way around his body.
The heart spasms harder,
The pulse throbs weaker.
The veins tighten and the cholesterol chokes.

Congealing,
Restricting,
Compressing.

The heart squeezes out a tired flush of sullied red fluid,
And shoves it into the creaking arteries.
The blood lurches down the aorta, clinging,
And sticking to the sides.

Passing through the swollen gut,
Replete with imbalanced gastric acid and trapped air,
The blood heaves its way on to the bloated bladder.

It passes the estranged penis towards the thigh.
It scrapes past the knee, the viscid plasma.
It flounders forward to the calf
It reaches the ragged ankle.

The heart struggles.
Irregular.
The muscle contracts.
Half way.

Stops.
Arrests.
Pain.
Collapse.

I get the phone call and my first reaction is profound anticipation of loss.

Five years later he’s still alive.
Five years later and it’s as if nothing happened.
Five years later and we still don’t speak.

I don’t think I’ll feel the same the next time round.