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
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 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?
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