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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 03, 2016

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Submitted: July 03, 2016



Lying in bed,
I hear voices,
see no faces,
just the faceless voices.

My ears hear,
but blind eyes
see nothing,
my eyelids are closed
pretending sleep.

That hospital smell
is still there.

Passing people,
nurses or doctors
or cleaners
or other patients.

My leg stumps pain me;
I want to rub them,
but want to pretend
to be asleep,
so don't move.

She went out then,
last night?
A voice says.

The voices are near at hand:
yes went out with some bloke
she's met in here,
I think,
the other voice says.

What? Patient?
The first voice says.

No some man
who visits her;
quite posh,
bought her
that red dress.

Looks tired now though,
the second voice says.

I lie listening
to the conversation
about me as if
I were not there.

Bet she misses
dancing poor girl,
a voice says;
Nurse Kavel said
she was enjoying
her night out so she said.

Couldn't take him
home for coffee
that's for sure,
the voice of another said.

They walk off
and I want to say
but I don't,
I lie and fume,
and open my blind eyes,
and look about
as if I could see.

O you're awake, then?
A voice says,
I'm nurse Carshaw,
I need to look
at your leg stumps.

I look to where
her voice is:
who was here
just now talking
by my bed?
I ask.

A couple of patients
I think why?
The nurse says.

just heard talking,
I say.

O they can gossip
in here,
nothing better to do;
mind you one of them
got burnt in that
bombing of the jam factory
a while ago;
burnt her face and hands,
but she's mending
as best she will,
the nurse says.

Shame about that,
I say,
pushing their words
and comments away.

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