In Plato’s epistemology, cast iron Truth
floats about in the sky. Aristotle believed
we are addicted to knowledge, and David
Hume proved the crowing of a rooster caused
the sun to rise. I live simply by the numbers, unzip
the little black bag my doctor gave me, load
a disposable needle in the spring driven lancet,
tell myself it can’t hurt anymore than last night,
and I’m ready for the first wounding of the day.
Sometimes my blood needs encouragement
to leave it’s happy home, so I squeeze and rub,
squeeze and rub, a drop on the meter, and viola,
my blood sugar level stacked, straightened and
counted, a posteriori, like Oreo Cookie packages
inventoried on a supermarket shelf.
I’d like to get rid of the meter, stop the twice
daily testing, but I’ve got to be sure my numbers
are low, and besides after all these years I’ve come
to love my feet and toes, don’t want to lose them. So-
I’ve given up candy, take mine black, and I’ll pass
on the apple pie a la mode.