The execution of hope

There are inmates in outpatients
patients in side wards with ingrowing
Doctors who mumble
old people who stumble
apple crumble at lunchtime
a woodbine for the smoking room
which doubles as a lead lined tomb
for when the X-ray’s run wild.

He has no compunction in
diagnosing dysfunction
I wonder who died and made this
man a God.

When they do an autopsy and
cut bits off of me
I think that It’ll shock them
they see Blackpool Rock
printed right through me.

I return to the inmates
who’ve been discharged
from a cannon,
I feel like a man on
a mission
which is wholly unlikely.

The Doctor’s tread lightly now
inject me twice nightly now
how I wish I was back
in the outpatients
I have patience,
I’ll wait,
an unstable inmate
tranquilised and

a hamster on a wheel.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.