Room scattered with the history,
that every days are made of.
Rotting food from days ago
stale curls of crisps.
Her body is a centrepiece,
its skin iced, diced, puffed
the blood needles
high five her sleep.
She been sold down a river,
for a damp crumpled fiver.
First scar to the breast
the breath of Patsy Cline.
Now a paramedic shouts.
'adrenaline!'
A screamed prayer
from this minister of life.
He knew this woman,
this ache long ago.
A gone, sad distanced sister,
now here in this shrinking world.
Slapping awake, carrying her
around this darkened room.
He can see her as a child,
the smiles,
scratched pop songs,
a birthday dress,
flecked with fish paste.
He locates a breath.
A pulse, shared rhythm.
The paramedic is no longer alone.
His sister begins to blow.
