Syringes II

Syringes as passive things. They are. They do nothing on their own, they have no agency, no motive power. They have no will, no desire, no need, no want. They are.

The syringe body contains air: a sterile body when manufactured to that effect. Sterility. A syringe never contains nothing. It is impossible for a syringe to contain nothing. It must contain something.
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I like to gaze at my books from time to time. Usually when I work. I pause to think or to reflect, and I gaze at my books. Many of them I have not read, not yet.
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Pharmacies sell syringes by the box: "Insulin Syringes / with the BD Ultra-Fine™ needle / 100 sterile single use syringes (10 packs)". [I wonder why "single use" is not hyphenated.] This is and is not poetry. It is not poetry to me because syringes serve a utilitarian purpose. I use syringes to inject insulin into my body. My pancreas cannot make insulin for some reason I do not know and at which I shrug. Insulin syringes are the type commonly used by heroin addicts and methamphetamine junkies to inject those compounds intravenously. (This, the act of pushing a needletip through your skin into a bulging vein, could not seem any more unpleasant an act, even as an act of mere imagination. I shake my head and clench my face in disgust.) The box in which the syringes are packaged says nothing regarding the syringes' possible misuse at the hands of drug addicts. The box lid flap asks politely, "For safe disposal of insulin syringes, please see package insert."