MY CONSULTING ROOM
The pale wooden door’s stiff –
as if playing a game to resist me –
I open it with a jerk. It squeaks.
The lights inside giggle from behind
a semi-covered ceiling arch.
At first the cream wall stares at me,
then lowers its eyes, shyly welcoming.
Staffs had switched on an extra heater.
They know I like it a little hot
even when the daffodils are out.
The blue-cushioned chair hugs me,
my back surrenders to its curved embrace.
The polished arms extend a sensual touch.
We are familiar, we meet every week.
Then for a few hours voices, then silence
vibrate the air as my patients circulate
like corpuscles in a blood stream.
I scribble and scribble: clinical notes suffocate
under strangulating lines and loops.
I stop; tidy my papers for the day.
sit unnecessarily for a few minutes,
all clinical matters erased from the slate.
Those minutes, a snatched slice of time –
here now between this room and me -
opens up a space as wide as that outside.
CLEANING WINDOWS
You have to be careful, otherwise
You would make dreadful smudges.
You warned me about cleaning windows.
For a time I leave our windows alone.
Dust layers the pane like those screens
round your bed as nurse preps you for op.
Then the window-cleaner arrives –
I watch the meticulous swipe
of his rubber blade remove the frothy lines.
Needs a good clean from inside-
he says as he collects his five quid.
Later I take a bucket of water,
pour a cup of thick green soap
and with a cloth start smearing the glass.
I move my hands up and down,
side to side, feeling the slippery
surface through my gloved hand.
Is that how the surgeon felt
while scouring inside your abdomen?
Finished. I sit on our bed and inspect:
a number of spidery lines have spread
from one end to the other closing in.
Stealthily the dusk cuts off the light
hiding the smudges. At least for now.
