~~
I watched in shy silence
as he polished the oak block floor;
a small Italian
an ex prisoner of war.
He sang as he polished
his voice loud and strong,
it was for me that he sang
his merry little song.
He wanted a smile to light up my face
to stop me being scared of that bewildering place.
Soon, I was clapping my hands with delight,
he whispered,
‘Bella Bambina, capito? You alright.‘
He gave me a wink
as he left my room,
the aroma of polish lifting my gloom;
through the tall French windows
the sun climbed higher in the sky,
just for a moment, I forgot I might die.
The door flew open and in came a nurse,
hypodermic in hand, I took a turn for the worse;
“bottoms up”
came the no nonsense voice,
I did as I was told
there didn’t seem to be a choice.
Streptomycin was pumped
into my tender rump;
the routine became familiar,
the Italian my friend.
The streptomycin?
Well, that saved my life in the end!
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | December 5, 2008 - 19:03
I found this poem so very moving, Val. I too had a brush with TB. My grandfather died of it when I was four and until the age of fifteen, I had to have regular chest X-rays, which in the early fifties were rather primitive and I found the whole procedure, degrading and frightening.
I really did love your poem Val:-)
Tina xx