Any fool can see it’s not Casualty.
He inherited my small jaw,
abridgement of gum. Impacted.
I am speaking of my son,
not the man who is waiting, bleeding,
torn white shirt a makeshift tourniquet
around his arm.
The receptionist is out –
for a cigarette, a coffee, a call of nature.
I’m in implants. Glossy pamphlets
spattered with iatric words.
Nobody here knows the way to Casualty,
after all, hospitals are sprawling –
too much room and too little –
discs whirring and cutting behind locked doors.
They entered by a side door,
the fans were burring and humming.
I didn’t smell alcohol –
an amalgam of male sweat and pine.
On the shop floor, the foreman cuts the current,
pulls on a pair of surgical gloves and
cleans the blood from the band-saw.
The blade shows off its proper bite.
(First published in Brittle Star, issue 37, October 2015)
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