The Room

There it is again, so faint

The soft footfall of the nurse’s shoe

In this awful corridor, refreshed

In the palest cream.

There are the glass shelves

On which lie tubes and cold steel.

You see them in the surgeon’s hand.


The trundle beds, too

Pushed into side wards;

So many buses, end on end;

All steel and blue mattress.

Parked. Waiting.

Then there it is.

A small room with glass doors to a balcony.

She never stood there,

Nor felt the sun.

It was, then, too late.

The curtains were drawn.

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