Morriston Infirmary Blues

…& flesh moulds itself

from shape to shapelessness,

the plastic elements of animal speech,

help and helplessness, 
as looming figures bring messages

of hope & despair,

among curtains & filing cabinets

snaking tubes & machines of desire

when will mother come? tonight?

when, on this ladder of crisis & recovery?

when will mother come?

We exist now among dials & screens

controlled by gods, animals & angels

jelly, sun, lunchtime & evening.

is there money to buy a portion of turkey

to extend the tablets I am on

or instead to do nothing

with no ounce of energy left?

Did we give it to the dog to chew

In midnight angioplastic reveries?

Or is there time yet to listen to tinkling teaspoons of laughter?

My husband’s middle name is Johnson

And he had two bars there

Holding the bottom ones in

I had to go back in and get the solid gold sections replaced

as an auxiliary nurse

with soft southern Irish accent

walks in with machines & laundrybasket

we didn’t have this trouble yesterday

and Sharapova is out

the screamer has gone

blackhaired student

asks Ron how he is

he, blind to zimmerframes & bedpans,

has a head full of sergeant-majors

& their messes

and the time one of them, knowing he was a teetotaller,

poured a pint of beer over his head

and he got up & hit him so hard

he fell backwards over the table

“You do that to me again & I’ll kill you”

he said

& now he sits, his lined, blind face

covered with his long, wrinkled fingers

waiting for his daughters

& his beautiful granddaughters

waiting for the man in black

who he knows has his number

waiting for the deal to go down

waiting for the cards to fall

waiting waiting waiting

for the various multiple indignities

inflicted upon our poor

                   and shapeless flesh

in this oxygenated cornershop

                        of unconsciousness

tucked away

within the great grey scar

running from the end of the world

to the navel of the baby of God