I Shouldn't Be Here
Mrs Gerwich from the home has a wonky hip;
Esther Murray’s caught god-knows-what from the new girl at
the local primary;
and Mr Fanovitch …
Mr Fanovitch has that thing on his toe that we won’t talk
about.
In short – I have people to see.
But I’ve just come from a curtained room after a bit of bad
news:
(Given.
It felt like received.)
with the blood from that poor lass on the motorbike
– off the motorbike –
still on my gloves.
I shouldn’t be here,
but I keep looking at that bloody hand, and it won’t stop
shaking.
I need a cup of tea.
As I reach for that shrivelled bag of leaves
the newspaper headlines glare up at me
from under a mug of black coffee –
half-touched – still warm –
whispering ugly plumes of heat:
“Junior doctors set to strike.”
How disgraceful. What shame.
And how much do they earn anyway?
The daily papercut chips away and my hands are
sore and
red and
stained.
Drip drip.
With a donor’s card in my back pocket:
what more can I give?
I feel – drained.
Paper thin.
Not much left in these veins.
But how dare I complain?
Saving lives!
Day after day.
Heroic! Defiant
in the face of every malady.
How can I put a price on that kind of salary?
Who wouldn’t give … everything?
But there’s not much more I can give.
And I clench my fist, trying to keep the blood
flowing,
but this was always a losing battle:
a war against death, in spite of war;
a war against disease, in spite of the strain
in my throat
and the clench
of my chest
– a tight, meaty fist –
beat – beat –
and all the rest.
But what do I know?
Some jumped-up twenty-something,
ungrateful, complaining,
again.
There’s a question in my brain,
tumour-like and growing,
and it comes without a question mark,
though I still hang from that curve and dot –
damn spot
