Vasectomy

I knew I had skimmed the brochure

Too quickly

And missed a crucial detail

When the acrid smell of my own burning flesh

Filled the operating room

I don’t know what I expected

Innocent, harmless stitches

Or a clever little sailor’s knot

But instead, a quiet, singeing holocaust

Was occurring in my crotch

Several million fates cauterized

In one sickly gentle touch

Later, in the contrite quiet of my bedroom

I let the Percocet course through me

Diligently searching out the searing pain

I wait with dopey concentration

For a sign

For anything

To detect a sound, a vibration

The useless loopback

Of my own high frequency distress signals