The Phlebotomist gored my arm
with a sipping straw size needle
missing the vein in my forearm.
She then began to fiddle it
around inside every which way
never concerned the slightest bit
about my pain; I pulled away
with an excruciating yelp.
Her perfunctory, “I’m sorry”
made matters worse. Sorry my ass,
I thought. I wondered how many
times a day she utters those words.
I said to her, that’s enough miss,
I’m not into masochism.