This month's sonnet is a tribute to health workers everywhere who risk their lives just by going to the office. Let's hope the new appreciation of their services will remain after the plague subsides.
I wrote this in hospital when they were poking around in my eye. That's my bed.
I wrote this in hospital when they were poking around in my eye. That's my bed.
In here you’re changed to infantile or old;
The simplest tasks are done on your behalf.
You quickly learn to do as you are told
And not attempt to second-guess the staff.
No matter that your legs are strong and fit,
Your journey down the hall is in a chair,
And if you have the nerve to question it,
You learn each pill is vital for your care.
Quips may relieve the stresses you endure
But doctors have no time for puerile jokes;
You’re just a body looking for a cure –
Their favourites are the ones struck dumb by strokes.
In bed, attention rains down from above;
For you, but not for them, it feels like love.
The simplest tasks are done on your behalf.
You quickly learn to do as you are told
And not attempt to second-guess the staff.
No matter that your legs are strong and fit,
Your journey down the hall is in a chair,
And if you have the nerve to question it,
You learn each pill is vital for your care.
Quips may relieve the stresses you endure
But doctors have no time for puerile jokes;
You’re just a body looking for a cure –
Their favourites are the ones struck dumb by strokes.
In bed, attention rains down from above;
For you, but not for them, it feels like love.
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