I arrange the blood pressure
machine on the table. Take my
arm from my shirt and wrap
the cuff around it. Unstick and restick the
velcro twice before it fits. A cup of tea.
A white bowl holds my banana and
clementine for when I’m done. Phone propped
up so I can see the time. Sit back and breath.
Look out the window. The squirrel hop, hop,
hops up the driveway, sits up outside
the window, holding an old, black acorn.
Breath. Relax. The sun is out after days
of rain. Five minutes yet? Breath. Relax.
I push the button. Squeeze, squeeze
squeeze. It squeezes my arm. Exhale.
Done. It’s raining again.