Lazarus Meets The Press Poem by Brian Wake

What bothers me, said Lazarus,
trapping flies in a glass,
brushing dust from his shirt,
what concerns me most of all,
wiping dirt from his eye, counting
fingers – eight, nine, ten, what
worries me now is doing it again.

I’m lumbered now, he said, saddled
with the signs, the tell-tale clues, chest
pains, the tingling arm, forgetfulness,
the fingernails turned porcelain,
the sudden twinge, cholesterol,
the horror of incontinence and lumps
and loss of weight. The calm
before the storm, the sense of doom,
things that go bump in the night,
a world turned waiting room.

Asked why by the man from the BBC,
I got it over with you see. Out like a light,
he said, goodnight and all the lights
were out, and in whatever sky I tumbled
through, not a single star nor any blue.