The Impartial Porter

As I lie naked buried in a chemically induced daze,
He brings me tea and toast.

‘Will that be all Sir?’
I muster up the strength
to utter
the co-ordinates of the bed side cabinet.

On it lie papers and other medical equipment
He understands.

I knew he would.
His moustache screamed it
On the way in.

The deed is done,
He sits; I lie; talking in semi-thoughtful glances.

After an hour he leaves.
I feel much better,
and return to my research.

I snap out of it and fix a drink
All questions answered, apart from that of the day.

The clock says it’s Monday
It’s been lying all weekend

I call the automated clock for confirmation.
It says it’s Monday too.

They must be friends.

James Costelloe was found dead in a broken clock in Washingwell Woods in the icy winter of 1978. He was grasping a visually impaired yet incredibly well dressed owl. The toxicology report is still heralded as one of the finest and most baffling pieces of self-medicinal literature to ever have been taken. His horse and publicist, Sweet-chuck, has the original transcript on his mantle piece. He often rings the neighbours after a drink to recite his favourite lines in horse.