Is this a strange place to be writing poetry?
Wouldn’t
sitting over strong black coffee
In the
corner of some bohemian café,
Whilst intense
intellectual discussions raged
Be the best
place to compose odes?
Shouldn’t I be scripting in my well-worn notebook?
Not
scribbling on a torn off piece
Of an egg
salad sandwich wrapper,
Resting on a
formica table top,
In the
echoing health centre café?
Where the
very old and very young
And infirm come
to eat some
Baked beans
fried bread and such
Which doesn’t
cost much;
Whilst waiting
for bloods to be drawn,
For wounds
to be bandaged
For toenails
to be cut and filed.
Here where
healthcare is still free,
Where they don’t
let you
Bleed
uncared for
With no one
to stop it,
Unless there’s
a way to
Turn pain
into profit.
