phalanx

 

in the air of the cold grey steel

these antiseptic floors

the trolleys chug by,

they’re dancing just for me

rattling like teeth, twisted choreography

 

people, people, people

I cannot avoid them

The Ward is a fucking railway station:

announcements, crowds and teenagers

chewing, inattentive, not there

 

and mothers nursing daughters, bored

wives fussing, hissing curtains

squealing along the rails

 

And in the corner a phalanx of sons

wet-eyed, bed-clustered

for their patriarch, laying still

 

Their hairy arms reaching out for the

blessing to fall from those dying lips

 

Through my morphium haze I spy them,

scan up their legs,

a pack of didicois

all biceps and tight arses

 

I’m wondering, hoping

They might walk over

surrounding my bed

and fall to their knees for me

eager to lift the sweet spoon

to my lips

instead