poem

Anne Stevenson How It Is

The old stone streets of Durham are losing their cobbles like sore teeth.

On they drill, those big shouldered county council blokes

in pit hats and yellow jackets, ear-splitting stone-splitters cordoned off

to prise up time’s suppurating slag and lay down new time in new rocks.

But time is space, and the paving they pound in is never so heavy

as the air they work in. It’s not even air that’s wrinkling them into

grey twists of men smoking outside the hospital doors after coronary

scares, or bodies wheeled through fluorescent corridors, gazing at you

in astonishment, grateful for the latest in hip replacements.

Tick tock go the secretaries’ heels, statistics in command

checking out the wards. Nurses glide by, their professional competence

neutered by their brogues and starchy caps, raised drips in hand.

Everyone is being taken care of, don’t worry, you will be all right,

say the men in green fatigues, removing their gloves and mouth masks.

Screens are still talking brightly when the theatres close for the night,

but it’s hard to believe you’re the blokes you thought you were, and no one asks.