cephalic vein

There's this vein on the side of my wrist
that always pops up, plushy and bold,
like some fluid-filled submarine surfacing
from the depths of muscle and skin.
It pops up when it so pleases,
warmcolddehydratedbloated,
there is no pattern, no predictability
except
when I'm searching a bad stick patient's arms
for an IV site or a blood draw.
Then, without fail, when I glance down
past my own probing fingers,
there it is,
my cephalic vein.
Plump and full,
bouncing back when compressed or tapped,
irrepressibly irrelevant,
so frustratingly luscious.

Why does it always emerge so stark
when my patient's veins have disappeared?
Is it gloating?
Showing off?
Rude and careless?
Flaunting inspiration?
Or is it trying, in an odd way, to help?
"Look, do like this, do like me,
you can do it if you just do like me."

My eyes trail down
the clamoring bulge of my vein
sadly, wearily, longingly,
wishing I could magically fill the patient's shriveled vasculature
with enough fluid or catecholamine balance
to make their veins resurface too,
and wondering if this obscene contrast
 is how my feeble, assuming compassion
looks when it pops up
alongside the truly suffering.