Crease: Bloodstream in the Word Stream

There’s always
So much to say,
But how foolish to try
With one’s mouth full
Of toasted cheese, tomato,
Cucumber, and sweet red pepper
Sandwich!

Better to pay attention,
For if I had been,
I probably would not
Have stabbed the left knuckle
Of my middle finger with the knife
When I was cutting
The plastic off the English cucumber.

I never expected
Such a continuous stream of blood;
Luckily, the fruit flies
That have been
So busily invading
My building lately
Aren’t bloodsuckers.

Once again, it’s time for bed,
The knife is washed and stowed,
The bread and vegetables refrigerated;
All is quiet on the kitchen front,
Except for the compressor
Kicking over now and then,
On this very humid night.

Mindfully, I notice what’s about,
In between seeing and hearing
The tapping of the keys
Beneath my fingers,
Occasionally checking on
The bloody knuckle,
To ensure it’s going to settle,
But then, ‘oh wait, I forgot to eat some fruit!’