Recovery room, coming round
He had survived a terrible accident.
As his mind cleared of anaesthetic sleep
It all came flooding back to him
Being run over and something else
He could not quite grasp, what was it now?
Something his mother had said to him
A whole lifetime ago
About hospitals and accidents
Boy was he worried and how
Shit … oh shit, he thought
There’s a nurse approaching my bed.
His panic had nothing to do with his mortal injuries
The contusions, the fractures.
Recalling what his Mum told him he remembered
The skid marks he knew he’d left on his underpants.
Comments
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Hi, Frank. I looked at this a few days ago and liked it, intending to come back to it and comment, but forgot to. Regrets on that. But I'm glad I remembered now.
I like the humor of this one; as usual, your poems have a real decency about them, and their comedy is never mean or cruel; instead, they bring up those tiny incidents that embarrass us all, like having "skid marks" on underwear just when someone has to see them!
Is there a mother in the whole world who doesn't warn their kids about that dirty underwear, with that maternal and eternal phrase: "You never know..."? I doubt it.
Best line for me: "Shit ... oh shit, he thought..." - ain't it the truth? And I suppose every doctor and nurse, examining someone after an accident, says the same thing.
Good poem.
Lad -
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What a good lad you are
I'm sure my opening remark has been said to you before often Lad. ta very much good sir for the appraisal of the dirty washing poem as it were. And as usual wise and apposite allusions. Much appreciated as ever. Cheers Frank
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