Surgical Operation Poem by Roy Ballard

My tumbrel bed has rolled along the ward
towards the surgeon or the guillotine
to sever or to save the spinal chord
and hours and hours of dark have slipped between.
Morning comes slowly to a troubled bed.
The hunters of the night leave hidden lairs;
the dark tormenters, strippers of the dead,
their pale eyes watching, weigh you unawares.
My cowardice lies bare with not a leaf
to pluck and wear to hide me from the pain
that searches my possession like a thief
who robbed me once and comes to rob again.
My gamin guardian angel saunters in
with snotty nose, bare knees and impish grin.