The Chapter

Him on a motor bike at 2pm


A small trickling meat of life

Is suspended in a double walled cooler box

And loaded on the back of a volunteer’s motor bike


He weaves through traffic

Moving quickly

Despite the weight of death

Contained by plastic and ice


Her, at 2pm, and waiting


Meanwhile she lies shaved, prone,

Covered in dye that proves she’s clean and ready

For some rubbered hands


Her blood pressure is as normal as it can be

Her pancreas is fucked

Type 1 diabetes



Him on the motorway at 2.45pm


Whispered prayers of love

Spray up in his wake

As miles are left behind


She lies still


Them – at 2pm and onwards


Plastic gloves are all the rage

As surgeons don the necessary



Points to prove;

To learners;

Without ‘L’ plates,

On their collective backs.


Him again – Nearer 3pm – A yellow/blue glow about his hidden eyes


The biker hands over one medium sized plastic box

Received sternly by a short man

Wearing a white coat.

They both sign something.

Then each raises two fingers (as this is England) to foreheads

Like Knights of olde with death in mind.

A whirr of the engine and off goes the fluorescent one

To save another soul;

And the small knight taps out a tattoo with his spectator shoes

While no-one watches him darkly fill a corridor or two.


My Friend Clurr – as the clock ticks and tocks


My friend lies waiting

As the opera in her mind

Sees tragedy

At every bind.


A Typical Reaction


I light candles when I can

And pray

In an atheistic way

For surely all love is love

And must find a way.


A Truthful Reaction


Her sister flicks the paper over

Sliding fingers on a screen

Before the surgeon

With his masked face

Leaves the room


Baited Breath


We wait….

And online,

Worries grow.


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