Tuesday, 2 April 2013

On The Ward

Grey woolen wire pointed south static, bobbing on the nod,
Ribbon Sikh pink turban sedated, slowly slowly.

TV tranquillized. Buried within a greasy
Couch where commercials flicker out.

I don't pace about … narrow corridors starling light.
Inward twist, dependent upon sedatives.

One turns a blind eye, as always.

Not an ego alive, this is not the time or place.
Coffee, Zopiclone metallic linger today,

Sound as a bell.

Rendered clones. Occupying staff work through the night.
Humid, flatulence, petulance..a nurse gets her tooth knocked out.

They've tasted Hell.

Sweating men stale smoke trails them. Another Day.
And yet We Are All Committed in various ways.

Compassion. Bureaucracy. Retching. Laughter.
I like those tiny paper cups too … so elegant.

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