Poem 281

The night before an operation … last thoughts before your fate is not your own … or depending on how things go, just last thoughts …

( I like the night lift groaning up carrying you inexorably from the small hours into day and equally inexorably to the hospital doors … )

Surgery Eve

The hospital waits preparing its whites
its hushes and special noises
behind the curtain
silence
the hospital waits whirring
everything tight and exact
in the dry air
                       pain creaking in every room
paper cups of old water
blood urine
and plastic
                       the hospital waits for you
in the morning the mask and needle
crenelated lights flicking
down the corridor
             matt green walls
             a tv studio
where the scalpel cuts perfectly
into your weakest point

the hospital waits
you're halfway there 
at home in bed dreaming
the slow night lift groaning up
             into clinical
             grief-stricken light
where nurses speak amongst themselves
and no one turns as you pass
smoothly on swivelling wheels
into unconscious whiteness
of the future