Casualty 

‘Any pain?' asked Nurse,
berthing by my bed.
I shook my head.
How could her pills
heal the raw rash of the stars
or still the laboured breathing
of the moon?

St Saviour's ward-
unseasonal flowers
still coffined in their shroud
of cellophane
and, through the pane,
a poultice of white sky,
and showers.

That first day
they filched my clothes
and paid me with an enema
and tea.
‘Lucky thing,' said Staff,
‘you've got a view.'
I sipped her pallid brew
and peered down.
A garden bench,
old, stained, but serviceable,
had fallen on its back,
slats broken,
legs sticking in the air.

It is still there.
No surgeon with green gown
and scarlet claws
has sutured it,
no Good Samaritan been down
with nurture
or remorse.
Only the cold rain
rotting its upturned, foolish legs,
its crippled frame.

‘No, Nurse,' I said,
‘no pain.'