Gill

The smooth armed philipino man
step slides in with his chest of medicines.
His name badge reads 'Gill',
he cannot remember the last time a patients' recovery made him smile.

He knows that the eleven year old boy with Pheobus won't walk again.
He knows the girl who will not wake up
probably won't,
but he charts her pressure with the asthmatic machine,
because he can see her family want him to.

The teenager who jumped from a bridge
into a Christmas night,
has broken the top off a tree, his legs, a promise and his parents mortgage,
he holds his hand as he surfaces at two,
the pavement inching closer.

In his smooth skinned kindness
he tucks in their feet beneath the blue blankets.
He leaves the lights on,
he dreams of bedpan realisations
the too late of mistakes.

The pink ones shaped like pessaries
the white ones all the same as eggs.

His mate is sleeping.
the corner of the window catches,
a nick on a hip.