poetry in the ward.

Like a piece of battered driftwood
tide tossed
the ebb and flow of visiting medicos,
who come and go
talking of pressures and blood flow,

They move in scheduled shifts
regular as the tide,
it is hard to find traction on the shore
to find poetry’s doors,

To reflect and opine on the divine
while shunts and leads
cover my old torso, wired to a monitor
I drift away from shore
into the ocean of healing and pain
thinking is this the end?

The kind nurses face be the last I see?
it is hard to find poetry
in the hospital ward
it will come again
as I drift slowly
to lands firm
embrace.

CP26