Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Today and Yesterday and Tomorrow

A boy wakes me in the night, afraid of monsters.

His breathing rattle rattles.

I lay down in the bed beside him

And point out the night-shapes

Of towels and blankets and other boys.

The window panes press in on us

But his lungs are louder. The cabinet

Stops us seeing each other’s faces:

I lift my arm so he can tell I’m still alive.

He coughs and struggles, perhaps asleep,

Perhaps not. I think of dialling 999

But something of the darkness stops me.

In the morning, the boy tells me goodbye.

A man I nearly know dies in transit. I strip

100 sheets from 100 beds, thinking of nothing.

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