He's clinically alive, the doctor said.
I press in closer, touch the panelled glass,
Watch his glassy eyes stare, hard face set.
It comes to me, while seeing him in bed,
Shut in his ward, he needed no palette,
No dyes, no clay to make a showpiece vase.His blood bag bobs. Some sudden pull of arm
Perhaps? A draught replies. He does not budge.
The chart of progress hung upon the wall,
Almost toplit, retains a certain charm,
While doctors' pickled papers revealing all
Except a fading wish and living grudgeExtol to all their interest in him.
A crumpled bedsheet stiff with him still mocks
His skilful hand and thoughtful mind on show,
Bereft of craft: atrophied, not thin-limbed,
Departed, not alive. And as I go,
I chuck a coin into his trust-fund box.
Published in Iambus (1994)
