Ted Harriott
Casualty
Peace is a word without meaning here
In this barn-like, untidy, grey-walled space.
No one walks. Life is at the pace of perspiration
And frenzy
Like Liverpool Street Station at 5pm,
With many of the commuters dressed
In funny green overalls and
Wearing masks.
People stampede in herds, weep, roar and bleed
Or posture their pain.
All but one, that is.
He sits, grey-faced,
Staring into an unanticipated void.
The pain of the heart attack has gone
At the antiseptic, anti-coagulant urging
Of the green uniformed ones.
For a few eternal moments
All he can do is wait,
Beyond reach or comfort.
Now he is in the loneliest place on Earth.
Page(s) 31
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