Living a poem
At the hospital, I woke up in the night went to the loo.
Coming out I didn’t recognize the hall a woman came
told me to go back to bed, “but my father told
me to stay here” and I knew I was in a dream I could
not remember the title of
When young this tendency to become was strong
but with advancing years and cynical sobriety my
reading of poetry had cooled.
The nurse took me to bed I invented her into it she
chuckled, go to sleep now. I in the morning while
waiting for pre-breakfast coffee and a scone and
the nurses were busy sticking needles into me
I tried to remember the title of the poem, and I think
it was called “the boy on the burning bridge.”