The Infirmary (1885) Poem by poppy miller

The Infirmary (1885)

She trundles with stiffness on her rag bound feet
Through early mist that clings to cobbled street.
The northern air so shrill and cold
Bites into brittle bones (arthritic she's told.)
The sign says Infirmary on the wall of flint
Her eyes draw close - she has to squint.
She speaks to the man with one leg and crutch,
He gives a few grunts - not a talker of such.
Points with his chin to the door at the side,
Front door for gentry - peasants denied.
Down the dark corridor that holds tragic meanness
She joins the rank of human depressiveness
Hobbling the stairs of cold, naked stone
With an air of a prison - it chills to her bone.
Into the waiting room (a cell on promotion)
With its smell of carbolic and antiseptic lotion.
And old man complains of his ulceric leg
A babe sucks on his teat to every last dreg.
Number thirty seven, calls the voice in blue,
She looks at her paper slip - she's number forty two.
She's reminded of the workhouse (no love lost there)
It's buried in their boots and trampled for flair.
A ghostly atmosphere sits like a cloud
Like death's waiting room - dower and dowd.
Even the embers are dismally dim.
The ulceric leg wants to toast - but no warmth for him.
She looks at the gaslight screwed down low
And wonders how bright the gentry's lights glow.
She closes her eyes - searching for a decision
deciding to leave - feet now step with precision
Though just as the growl bellows number forty two
She's left in a quandary - left in a catch twenty two.

©
12/2/2012