So here we all sit in heavy silence,
With the Odd dull Whispered Word sailing by.
Waiting. For Waiting is the damnedest part,
Averted Eye contact a lifetime taught,
A thousand and One times the leaflet Read:
\'Would you like to follow me Mr Bruce\',
She asks in a measured clear Sing Song Voice.
And so he wanders off to hear his fate
From a Doctor sat with Thumb, North or South,
Like a Medical Roman Emperor.
Magnified Words falling with a dense tread.
While outside Nurses hurry in their Scrubs-
The Uniform of Pubescent dreams gone,
Carrying Blood Samples and Nasal Swabs,
And Bedpans discreetly hid from our view;
The last indignity that awaits us.
And with Hips swinging there\'s an urgent need,
To take her away from this, Blue Angel:
The Wet smell of the Clinically Clean,
The Constant Reassurance of \'All\'s Well\',
A Spoonful of Sugar helps the Medicine,
And Declare my all to the \'Mouth of Truth\',
To know that we will always have Paris,
Carve her Name in a Poem for the Ages.
But Dreams are all we have, a Vital Fuel,
The Sole difference between Stick or Twist,
Or the Thousand Miles between YES and NO.
And here I feel is the Price of Being:
For we begin in Hospital and End;
A Train Station of Hello\'s and Goodbyes.
And Between Bookends to Biography-
Supermarkets and days out to Margate.