Vigil

You sit by your father’s bedside
In the hours of darkness
Protecting him from doctors
And their fanciful theories

We fly him home
From England to France
Where he sits in his own clean hospital room
With a remote control for the blinds

And you translate his complications
And the doctors’ misdirection
And again sit by his bedside
In the hours of darkness

Protecting us all
From the bogeyman
Of dirt and negligence
And the NHS

In Le Gare du Nord I Sat Me Down to Wait

Feeling good
Two days spent in Paris
Feeling bad
As you were not here with me
Feeling good
To be alive, to have my health,
My mind, to not be sitting
On the dirty concrete begging
Feeling bad
That my feet ache from yesterday’s
Walking marathon
To the Pompidou Centre
Which was closed
As it was Tuesday
Feeling good
That I will see you soon
Feeling bad
That I have to wait until this evening
To catch Eurostar home
Feeling good
As these scribbled notes in my book
Begin to make sense
Of the sights, sounds, smells
Of Paris
Feeling bad that upon my arrival here
I was taken for a mug
And gave sixty Euros to a con man
In the Metro
Feeling good
Sitting on this balcony
Sipping a coffee
Overlooking the station’s comings and goings
Feeling good
That I am not a pigeon
Although it would be useful to be able to fly
Feeling bad that my phone credit has expired
And I can’t call you
Feeling good that I will see you soon
Feeling bad that I will not see you soon enough
Feeling good that I will see you soon