9.44pm At The Hospital Poem by Ben Barton

These men are children
Sixty years in childhood; lined at their nebulizers
fed, watered and wiped
By the nurses.

A phones insistent ringing
Piercing
On the other end -
a worried relative
but I cannot console them
it's no job for me
What would I say?
'You can't speak to him now, I don't think he's free'

How can I tell them he's dead?

An empty bed; the ringing, on
and on
and on in my head.

But if I answer the phone,
what do I say?
'This bed is no longer the one where he lay'

The phone rattles at the foot of my bed
Sounding the sounds that thud in my head

How do I tell them he's dead?