Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Urology - The Poem

hardly anything hurts here
front of the internet 
finding out where it came from:

personal history,
recurrent urinary tract infection,
external beam radiation,
consumption of aristolochia fangchi, 
infection by parasite,
caffeine, saccharin,
hairdresser, machinist,
printer, painter, trucker,
rubber, chemical, textile,
metal, leather worker,
smoker (greatest risk),
dark tobacco, after that light,
then second hand.
male over fifty,
worse as you age.

Give up smoke.  Get younger.

Have you brought your dressing gown?  High eighties outside.  I have not.  You’d best wear this.  Hospital tie-at-back shortie blue  angel gown your NHS arse sticks out you can’t go in there with your arse out I don’t care put on these paper pants cover yourself there’s a love.  Cover my arse they won’t.  Edges flapping can’t reach or be bothered.  Goosebumps.  Fear.  You alright, Peter?  You’re next, my love.  You are.  There’s a good boy.

On the screen it’s like miniature DynoRod
hunting my house drains
water running so it slides
headlamp camera scouring plunger
At twenty meters they found a ring-seal loose
have to dig that out.

On the notes when I browse them
while the nurse is out
the sketch looks like a sea anemone
still life: bladder with flower
done in biro
sideways on the urine analysis
Red cells present: too
many to number.

My father died in this building
five floors up from where I am now
sunlight streaming through the glass
nurse with stockings clearly visible 
under her white dress neither 
he nor I bothering 
him pulling hard for breath and me
holding tight his hand.   End game.

But this time, not yet.
I put the gown in the dumper &
the pants in the bin. 

Breathe again.


This poem first appeared in Peter Finch's Zen Cymru published by Seren Books

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