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

Stylee

 

Him on the motorway at 2.45pm

 

Whispered prayers of love

Spray up in his wake

As miles are left behind

And

She lies still

 

Them – at 2pm and onwards

 

Plastic gloves are all the rage

As surgeons don the necessary

Egos:

Ready;

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 Knight

To save another soul;

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

As 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 a masked face

Leaves the room

 

Baited Breath

 

We wait….

And online,

Worries grow.

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