DIDACTIC POEM NUMBER THREE OF SICKNESS
You wake. Things hurt. You’re dizzy. Twice you fall
between the bedroom and the loo. You’re sick.
There’s blood. Your throat feels acid-burned. The trick
Is somehow to stay conscious as you crawl
back into bed and try to use the phone
and get a taxi or an ambulance. The ache
is everywhere, like bone crack. Try to take
some ibuprofen. You’re not on your own.
She wakes up and takes charge. Opens the door,
gets you downstairs. You pass out. On the ward,
a morphine drip; without the pain, you’re bored
And drift, She holds your hand. There’s not much more
This time you live, it happens. Later, not.
Remember, life is short, your lover’s hot.