After a poetry reading at a geriatric hospital in Birmingham, December 1983
I go home by train
with a cig and a Carly.
Back at the gig
the punters, in bed early
dither between sleep and pain:
‘Who were those people?
What were they talking?’
The staff,
thankful for the break,
the cultural intrusion,
wheel out the sherry
and pies. Look forward
to a merry Christmas
and another year of caring
without scrutiny.
Mutiny!
In a corner,
the wheelchairs,
vacated now, are cooling.
In the privacy of darkness
and drying piss,
sullen-backed,
alone at last,
they hiss.