A Crash Of Bangers And Mash

Unsure if I am hungry or in pain,
I slice up sausage and try not to think
of surgery. The man in the next bed
is flirting with two nurses – the giggly
one, glamorous enough but too petite
to be a model and the jolly one,
whose thighs feature in my night shift dreams – when
he suddenly falls silent. Giggly calls
his name and reaches out to rescue him
from pillows piling white like pounding surf.
Jolly strides with purpose and shoves his wheeled
table from her path, sending dinner
clattering – a crash of bangers and mash -
as she punches the alarm and shouts for resusc.
I sit with sausage raised part way to my
mouth as the pushing of compressions and
pant of counting breaths keep time with bed frame
creak. There is a rumble as more staff come
running at the double and the squeak of
wheels on cardiac machines. Curtains fail
to close completely round the scene as I
hear the command given to stand clear. In
all the commotion, I notice my poor
sausage growing cold. I almost put my
fork down and push my meal away in small
sympathy for another’s frail mortality.
But I have been ‘Nil By Mouth’ for days
and salivating more than lachrymose
- so fuck it. Life is far from a free
banquet, so we must lunch upon each moment
while we can. (Besides, the man survived.)