No, we’ll not accept Hospital Transport.

A week ago, you’re alone in our old front room, a trial run –

I’m at work for this ‘real life situation’ – you’re weak, can’t walk an inch.

Four hours late, a self-important fluorescence, a haste-fraud, an emergency nonchalance, finally turns up.

‘Out-sourced ambulance’.

I meet that private sector excellence, that efficiency gain, back at the ward:

‘Why didn’t you just tie her to a radiator, slap her about a bit,

text me a rendezvous for the ransom?’

He looks hurt, and I am – I shouldn’t have said ‘her’. He

doesn’t answer.

Now that his super-light stretcher is empty, he tucks the straps back, steers wearily out.

No, we’ll not accept Hospital Transport.

A last juice, a last London Pride and then we’ll take the two-bus option, compete

with sleeping babies in padded buggies, their mother guards.

We raise a glass in advance: Here’s to the big red crates!

And praise for Kenya and Ghana, Nevis & St Kitts.

Nigeria, Poland, Botswana – praise for all the nurses!

Almost all the nurses. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The Philippines! – thank you nurse, thank you doctor!

(We are a people-thief nation: forgive this kingdom of traffickers.

And here’s to cause’s cure.)

No, we’ll not accept Hospital Transport,

but now I’m a mellow Prider. Praise for that driver.

I know, I know, I do know: I’ve been all misdirected anger,

blame game adrenalin, ‘above criticism’. ‘We’ve had enough of collapse, of paroxysm.’

Elderfield, Everfield, let the me seep back in, let us all seep back

to the best of ourselves, fill the lack, restore the wells.