The nurse turns the key
in the lock,
then pockets it
and walks on
with the tray of sandwiches
and puts it on the table
in the main ward.
He has watched her
come and lay
the tray down
and watches her
walk back
towards
the locked door.
He times it,
the journey
there and back,
how long it takes
to unlock the door
then that gap
of a few moments
between opening the door
and laying the tray aside
while she locks again.
Christine watches him,
stands beside him,
don't try
running out again,
she says,
they'll get you
like they did last time.
He sighs,
this place
is getting me down,
the locked doors,
the ward,
the confinement.
I know,
she says,
I’m here,
too, remember.
Each time you try
to escape
they’ll judge you
as unfit to leave.
Get a sandwich
and a coffee,
and we'll go sit
by the window,
away from the others,
she says.
So they get sandwiches
and pour coffee
and go sit
by the large window
of the sleeping quarters,
which looks out
on the woods
and grounds.
They are alone,
the others
are in the main lounge,
watching the TV,
others asleep
drugged up,
or sitting reading.
We'll get out one day,
she says,
but not, if you keep
trying those escapes
or suicide attempts.
He watches the grey sky,
birds drift there,
black rooks,
white and grey gulls.
Do you think
there is a God out there?
he asks.
Who knows,
she says,
scanning the horizon,
taking in the distant trees,
field covered
in white snow,
maybe there is,
maybe there isn't,
depends if it makes you
feel good to believe
he does or not.
He watches a tractor
ploughing through
the snow covered field,
birds following
in the tracks.
This doesn't make sense
if there's no God,
he says,
how did it get here
all this stuff?
She looks at him,
the bloodshot eyes,
the growth of beard,
the hair unkempt.
More questions than answers,
she says softly,
why waste your time,
life is to live,
live for ***** sake;
I ain't wasting
any more time
on the ****
who left me
at the altar.
He gazes at her,
her thin frame
and figure
and pale complexion,
her hair brushed neat
into a ponytail.
I always wonder
about things,
he says.
Who made this
and why
and who did what
and when.
Well don't,
she says,
leave that for those
who care a ****,
live your life
and to the full,
because once you're dead,
your dead.
The tractor turns back
along the field,
gulls and rooks follow,
flap of wings,
exchange of black
and white and grey.
He sips the coffee,
she nibbles a sandwich,
her dressing-gown is open
at the top, revealing
a sight of ****,
flesh, soft, perfumed.
She doesn't bother
to cover up,
the room is warm,
the one who said he cared,
left her at the altar,
broken like some
thrown away doll.
He looks away,
takes the image,
folds it into the
see-some-other-time box,
dream time,
night time,
folding his arms
around an empty
dream, night,
he out and free,
and she building up,
what once feel down,
no more being left
at the altar
by another clown.