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

Submitted: September 22, 2016

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Submitted: September 22, 2016



Guy and Philip
are with me
on the grass
in the hospital grounds.

I'm in a wheelchair,
they are nearby.

I hear them,
but not see them
with my blind eyes,
but look in their direction.

Take me?
I ask.

A car ride
into the countryside
for a picnic,
Guy says.

And where am I to go
if the call of nature comes?
I say.

I'm sure there'll be
a inn nearby or hotel
for you to use,
Guy says.

And who will help me
and carry me
without my legs?
I say,
becoming annoyed.

There is silence.

Never thought of that,
says Philip,
touching my hand
(I assume it
is Philip).

It is bad enough in here
with nurses around
to get attention
and get there on time,
let alone
in some countryside,
I say.

Yes sorry about that, Grace,
Guy says,
back to the drawing board.

Maybe we will
have to settle
for somewhere nearer,
Philip says.

St James Park is nearest,
I say,
there will be fine.

They agree
and we are silent
for a few moments.

How are you coping?
Guy asks suddenly,
leaning closer to me.

Not easy being blind
and without legs,
stuck in hospital
until I can find
somewhere to live
and a nurse or someone
to help me,
I say,
looking in the direction
of Guy's voice.

The bombing has left
a lot of people homeless,
Philip says,
maybe once your stumps
have healed sufficiently
you can stay
at my place,
I can arrange
for a nurse or two
to attend you.

Live with you?
What would people
say to that?
I say.

As a guest,
he says,
all above board
nothing underhand.

I look towards
his voice.

We'll have to see
how things go,
I reply,
thank you Philip.

They talk of other things;
I listen:
talk of the War
and bombings
and Churchill's speeches
and rationing
and so on.

I think of another life
when I could dance
and see and make love
to Clive before
his death at Dunkirk,
and that last time
we had sex
and it was so hot,
and now I feel
utterly depressed
that I can't be bothered
to listen
to the rest.

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