We skated down disinfected corridors on beds
meant for the sick or dying, crooning
into mobile drips like they were Elvis mics.
We thought our antics might lift the stricken
patients' spirits, but it transpires
if you're bedridden and in traction
laughter's a poor substitute for qualified
medical professionals and morphine.
Also, no one was laughing,
except us, and our laughter was mainly derisive,
aimed at the retired school teacher who kept
reciting his old register, flying into a fury
whenever he reached Evans.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
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