Postcards

She started in the medical wards,
With the dishevelled old gents,
Their missing dentures and distant adventures.
Hour by hour punctuated with shower by shower,
And dutifully dosing dopamine, Duodart, Diabex …
Or the old fellas might fade.

Call bells are calling ...

Then to the bubbling, boiling, batty and breathless.
Resuscitation replaced restoration,
With routine catastrophes in apostrophes.
Chaos curtained, cubicle by cubicle,
Frantically she fetches fluids, fentanyl, frusemide …
To keep the misfortunate alive.

The sirens are stalling …

“I’m going on a holiday”
Swapping cases for suitcases.
Zips sweating and pulling to grasp sweaters, pullovers, high-heels,
Dressing for thrills in footwear that kills,
Eagerly ordering edamame, escargot, eel …
To keep the glasses clinking.

And the cameras clicking …

Pale like a china doll — it’s winter?
Fragile and flagging — jet lagging?
Losing weight — that’s great!
The red spatter — that’s no matter?
Sirens sing.
She shifts outfits.
Up the lifts.

Now she calls the bell
For the old gent next door,
He’s ranting about the war …
And lost his dentures somewhere on the floor.
While she updates her last post,
With selfies from abroad.