After gruesome tales
of a scalpel with my name on it,
I told them what they wanted to hear.
Now the horizon is steel within arm’s reach,
fluorescent lights are my never setting sun
and the monthly disinfecting is my calendar.
The stench of fear fills the corridor.
It could be months, could be minutes
until the silhouette of a man with a hacksaw files past.
Eventually I’ll hear the screams of the amputee to be.
While others beg for a rose lined cobbled lane,
I’ve learnt to leave my body, detach from pain.
My soul drifts to Birdman’s lakeside perch.
He swoops magpies, clearing the oyster racks
by a canoe width.
Someday I’ll plunge into those frigid depths.