Connie Bensley
The Upper hand
I am frightened of this orderly.
Huge, with a black helmet of hair,
she slaps her broom round my bed
and, fixing me with a glittering eye,
intones something gnomic.
Sorry? I keep saying, and at last
the words fall into focus:
Two pints of lager
and a packet of crisps.
I laugh obediently, mime sudden sleep.
Now she is here again, smacking my locker,
bending over me, her face
close as an eye surgeon's.
Are you with me, she breathes,
or with the Woolwich?
With you I say fervently.
Page(s) 32
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