Words That Burn

Talking to Her, by Vincent O’Sullivan (1937-)

Talking to her is stepping from a street,
from traffic and sun and the racket of news
to a hospital lobby, where feet
click on lino, where the jaunty lose

the springiness of their walk, are told
Wait here until the Authorities are free.
Or Come in, you can visit now, old
and young and sick are all there to see.

I imagine a ward with row upon row
of patients, some sleeping, a few
sighing to themselves, a dream of snow
over beds sedation is flooding through.

And there are other doors for the dying
and a room with bars across the pane.
The smell of the air scours deceit and lying.
I have never been anywhere so sane.

(Note: “lino” is short for “linoleum”)