I spat out blood violently in front of two cops.
They called an ambulance: ETA in 9 minutes. Officer Gonzales
of the 41 Precinct and FDNY medics asked the same question: Have I been to West
Africa lately?
I wish.
I’ll do anything to get out of The South Bronx.
I always wanted to travel Earth and beyond.
Oxygen mask on as sirens wailed in rain.
Oh my! How exciting! An adventure!
I spent 10 hours on a bed at Lincoln Hospital.
I saw young and old crowded in ER. They all were like
children afraid of the dark.
Health care workers of different nationalities talked about
movies as they surrounded me. A medic strapped on gloves with a snap and a
smile. You remind me of Dexter, I said. Please don’t kill me. He laughed. Blood
work came back fine. No Ebola. No HIV. No Tuberculosis. X-rays came back fine.
No Cancer. My heart bled in gratitude.
I thanked every professional for his or her service.
I thanked God like a little boy saved from lions.
Ulcer, blood pressure too high and a violent reaction to Advil
were the reasons I was spitting blood like an actor screaming in agony in Alien
and gory sequels galore.
I humbly ate two hamburgers at Mickey D. They tasted so good
without extra salt.
I drank pineapple juice. I walked home past a park under
stars and saw new country.
I saw The Wonder Years go on forever for future generations.
Truthfully, I’m dying for salty fried chicken wings.
And hot sauce hotter than Hell.
It would taste so sweet.
It would be Heaven.
