They come in on the tide

regularly, every hour, day and night

the flotsam of broken bones:

from every quadrant

blaring horns bringing them,

gas and aired in blissful oblivion

old ladies who tripped over kerbs

tumbled down steps, slipping on mats:

Crraack!

for the surgeons skill and knife:

cobbled together for another lease,

with screws, wire and other folks blood;

abetted by legions of physios, nurses, therapists, cooks, radiologists, cleaners, porters, secretaries, specialists

and management doyens

orchestrating the strings.

 

Ambulance to A & E

fast-tracked to Trauma ward,

 to Anesthetic room then theatre;

on to recovery and back to Ward

a conveyor belt of patched up bones

reconfigured tendons and bits of metal

with the fleshy part kept going

by divers gadgets, monitors and devices

suppliers and deliverers galore.

The mind bits kept afloat by drugs, hope,

instinct and Mr God.

Average  turnover, less than a week,

in then out.  All the time. Everywhere.

 

Like a call to arms!

to keep the ball rolling

apace the aging populations proclivity

 to fall down:

For old bones to grow brittle and snap.

For cherishing the elders

and honouring the oath of Hypocrates.

 

In my case, they delivered me

cocooned in a safe package

all the way up 19 stairs, step by step

back to a family nest

youngsters agawk at how grannies travel

back where I started, but one step on.

Not dead yet!