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My meter knows me inside out –
That’s what this poem is all about;
Too little or too much blood sugar –
My meter always has the figure.
Each morning when I rise from bed,
Before my wife and I are fed,
I squeeze my hand; I make a fist,
And stick my finger (not my wrist).
My meter wants a drop of blood
(With practice you avoid the flood)
Delivered to its tiny strip
In one clean move without a drip.
And this is when the fun begins:
The meter counts from one to ten;
Then signals with a flashing light
When my blood comes out all right.
Some days I can’t believe my eyes;
The price of eating all those fries
Is flashing on my meter’s screen:
Your score today is two fifteen!
And days when I am feeling blue
I look for something good to chew;
Some celery or a carrot stick
Never really does the trick.
I’d rather have my candy bars
(Preferably, the ones from Mars)
A burrito and a Coke are fine,
But raise my score to two-o-nine.
I think by now that you can see
What my meter’s done to me –
I can’t enjoy a simple snack
Without my meter flashing back:
Eat it if you really must;
I know you say it’s dust to dust.
What you eat is up to you.
Today your score is three-o-two.
But when you’re gone remember this:
It’s not your meter they will miss.
You can live a long, long time;
With moderation you’ll be fine.
But somewhere in that brain of yours
A vicious cookie monster stirs,
And tells you how to fix what hurts
By wolfing down some more desserts.
And yet you always act surprised
When I flash the score before your eyes;
It’s what it is – I cannot cheat,
Or tell you what you ought to eat.
So let us call a truce for now,
And see if we can figure how
To stabilize this glucose creep;
So you can die old in your sleep.
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