Fourth Shot Poem by saranyan bee

Today the fourteenth day,
I am due for the fourth one -
doc cares less for my wound,
flushes hundred questions
on dog welfare (remember the bite?)
tells his girl to prepare the shot -
behind the green curtains
I down my new trousers,
button holes ill-hemmed,
act diffident like harlots,
I, then, poach the rubber sheet, wait -
in the meanwhile, doc beckons,
they come,
a pretty girl twenties,
a daft boy twenties,
her wrist’s held by the doc
like a slice of water melon,
hears her heavy heart
and her bosom,
reads the gravindex from lab,
doubly sure, sighs
the girl is pregnant,
(strangely at this point
they discuss between themselves
marriage, career,
social evils, morals, shady deals)
she cries for a while,
nods to abort,
the boy cries for a while,
agrees for the ordeal which has a bill,
though I know my shot is over,
wait for the slap that is now a pattern,
and think about the dog who bit me,
has no bloody issues in all these nuances.