A Sitch In Time
I lie beside the scalpels,
As nurses and surgeons
With beautiful minds
Make five precise incisions,
To free imprisoned maladies.
They nip and snip, and gently tuck,
Then slowly stitch, and zip me up.
I'm fine and fixed.
A box is ticked.
The dotted lines are signed.
On coming round
I'm slowly rolled
Toward thoracic wards,
Where cannulas and catheters
Sustain and drain the healing hordes.
Hernia surgery hurts.
Distracted nurses irk and work me up.
When woken up, i curse and tut,
As miniature pill-filled paper cups
Toward my thirsty mouth are thrust.
"Medication time...Medication time...!"
Pulses race and temperatures rise.
Slowly, lips begin to sip on bittersweet solutions,
Which numb the sharp and crippling pain
Whilst others aid ablutions.
"Check vital signs...Check vital signs...!"
Temperature, pressure and pulse.
It's 2 and 6 and 10 and then
At 2 and 6 and 10 again.
The nurse's circles never end.
Internal stitches, morphine itches,
Stomachs lay distended.
Stop the clocks!
My soul by sleep befriended.
Sixty seconds while away
'Til dreamy scenes release me,
To sixty hours wide awake,
A mental hell...
For heavens sake!
Moans and groans,
and snoring tones -
A thousand beeps surround.
These are now, and ever to be
The hospital's signature sounds.