Fit as a Fiddle

by Gary Rainford

Bobbi is a sack of complaints
ignoring death under Pepsi Blue
sheet.  Deb from Hospice takes

her twisted, arthritic fingers, rests
them in hers, fits the blood pressure
monitor around her skeletal wrist,

then presses the start button.
Once Deb is done examining Bobbi,
she looks at me, jazz-hands her

shapely breasts and thighs and
belly rolls, rolls her eyes, and says,
“Her vitals are better than mine,”