Jonathan ROBIN (22 September / London)

Room 202 am I to all drawn through
my space, trace day or two, weeks, more, few know
when weakness, illness, accidental blow,
may strike? All careful welcome find, though to
my door few come by choice, 'tis true.

Room 202 sufficient, spartan simple taste
furnished for those who should never haste;
I shelter all who nursing need. Time's flow
takes on a different meaning here while slow
trickle second thoughts that elsewhere tick off waste.

Room 202 bright white - nor curtains blue,
nor scarlet velvet trappings status show,
no gilded chandeliers nor burnished glow
should twist attention. Textures rich in hue
overload the senses, to rest prove foe.

Room 202, home to bed pillow-cased
in cotton clean, where conscience double-faced
or clear must meet harsh challenges that grew
formidable, host cancer, palsy, flu,
unfeted crash fate caused, with limb replaced.

Room 202 bears witness, sometimes pain explodes,
some sadness, joy, as next-of-kin decodes
with gasp or grasping fingers motives true
too often hidden from men's conscious view,
await new tenants' temporary abodes.

Room 202 stays neutral through and through.
continues welcome, patients come and go,
some cured and some immured, while to and fro
mind's eye reminded of life's fragile cue
from age old illness seeks solutions new.