On the Day of the Politician's Funeral

My blood will only dribble out.
I'm lying on a Central Blood Bank donor bed.
The nurse shrugs: Next time, drink more water.
On the TV monitor:
                                coverage of the funeral Mass,
the accolades & I remember meeting the Politician
with his ruddy, almost salmon-face: a dozen of us crowded
in a conference room to lobby him
against the death penalty.

He was polite, shook his head, dodged our eyes,
checked his watch, half-listened.

After giving blood, you have your choice.
A secular communion. I choose apple juice & crackers. 
But the Politician's dead & all I feel is queasiness
remembering
the stale-aired, claustrophobic room,
the inch-thick stack of documents I'd yellow-marked.
He was Catholic. Should I have worn a crucifix?

I sip the sacramental juice & think:
You're Rh Negative, O Type. Universal donor.
Funny how some Rh Negatives think they have a psychic gift

                                & claim they're not descended
from rhesus monkeys, but from ancient extra-terrestrials
who left their DNA with a lucky few.

Some folks believe anything.