I take a ticket, I’m number 73,
Just after 72 that’s me,
I look at the red ticket counter,
40 it says and so I wait,
Because I’m a number,
I’m number 73.
Always waiting,
Waiting for what?
Not just a blood test,
A result, a diagnosis, a prognosis,
A judgement that will say,
You can live today.
I look around at my fellow travellers,
All sat in pallid deathly stillness,
Like broken down people,
Who need to be mended,
They have empty ghost eyes,
It’s as if they only half exist.
The counter counts and my number is called,
I’m 73, that’s me,
So I go through the door,
I’m waved over to a chair and I sit patiently,
While the nurse looks through some papers,
Not at me, no, not at me.
“What’s your name”, says the nurse,
And I say “73” because that’s me, number 73,
“No” she says “your name”,
So I tell her and she writes,
Writes on one of those plastic tubes,
That will carry me away,
To be measured and found wanting,
To be exposed, naked in my corruption.
She asks me to make a fist,
And I do as I’m asked,
I’m obedient – I’m number 73,
She prods my flesh and then,
Like a lover the needle enters my flesh,
A stab, a loving pinch,
And the dark red blood flows.
I watch amazed that I feel nothing,
As the blood flows from me,
But soon it’s done and I get up to leave,
The ecstasy over all too soon,
Leaving me feeling dejected and rejected.
I leave and notice that the counter,
Has been reset,
Now someone else will soon be number 73,
And I leave crestfallen.
