Feel the sweat

drain off me, pulse,

back and forth,

the body slamming sideways

into the fear of the awkwardly

thrown punch,

stop, no breathe,

searing heat exploding

as fear takes hold,

walking slowly in a daze,

my thoughts unclear

as my head hurts

and the safety of home dying

in my arms

and unconsciously I mouth

for help.

 

The blackness came quickly.

 

The shaft of bursting light

from the draught excluder

strip light above my head

and the cold stare of the Doctor’s clip

board told me I had been unfortunate

to land in a hospital not run with compassion

for the human soul

but saved only

because there was enough money

in the bank.

Next to me, in a bed that was reminiscent

of the one I lay with a chest

that had been opened,

was a man of thirty,

“and him?” I asked

Clipboard stood motionless,

his mouth all bright

tombstones,

“He died poorly…anyway waste not want not,

can you feel his pulse?”

 

Ian D. Hall 2015