I can spot a good vein across the room. Pulsing, thick, blue lines in a curved elbow,

a graceful hand fluttering with thin veins spiderwebbing over dainty wrists,

slender arms my finger ghosts over, seeking, searching, feeling the firmness,

the dense flow that ebbs just beneath, the knotty scarring of many donations.

I fight the urge to cross strangers, to skim my fingers over cords of tendons,

the soft, fluttery hum of arteries, the pliant nerves ghostly presence

and the shallow basin of a vein, clarified with a pressure cuff. Not seen but felt,

my finger presses, and with a deft hand I strike, drawing blood. They pay me, you see,

professional vampire in a modern world, bloody gift sent to dreamless lab technicians,

nourishment to feed the hungry community their gift-giving life.