Displayed in Chelsea
How nice for the dwellers of Chelsea,
For the tourists who visit in droves
To spot the odd hospital escapee
Whose aura of otherness behoves
The healthy, the fit and the smoking
To tread SW3 with more care,
To steer round the tube-up-nose bloke in
Luke’s Gardens; the dame without her hair.
They’ve got used to the man on the drip,
Machine shunted across Fulham Road
Where he chills at the café and sips
On coffee and sunshine – unloads
That husk, ward-dried sense of himself.
Or they might just see me – and my pump
And bandage and cannula. Health
Can implode with that very first lump.
Written at The Royal Marsden Hospital, Chelsea