Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney


We waited there, on hard chairs. The harsh light
kept us from sleeping. And there was the smell
of bleach, cold tea and vomit. We could tell
the time from all the shouting. Late at night

it filled when the pubs empty but by two
went quiet .Someone with a broken arm
waiting for plaster. But at least it's warm
I reassured myself and said to you.

She's fine, a nurse said, though her throat is sore
from where they pumped her stomach. She will rest
for half an hour, then take her home. It's best
if you come through now. We walked through the door.

She was alive but pale. And looked so small.
We don't know what to say to her at all.
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