Crossing Paths

A new arrival's here. "Just let me be!"
she shouts. The porters wheel her into place:
Bed 26, diagonal from me.
She stares across and says, "I know that face…"

The night staff are observing elsewhere now;
I watch the lady clamber out of bed.
There’s swearing; she’s determined, with a scowl
I recognise. She tuts and shakes her head.

"It’s you there, you, the one who steals the milk!
I saw you last night too, out on the street
before they brought me in. You’re always around,
just loitering. You made them bring me in!"

I smile. We meet again, not from last night,
but almost every time I’m on the wards.
The details differ: fracture, left or right;
infection, often. Always, words like swords,

necessitating shields. The smile, to start,
while wandering the ways inside her mind.
I don’t have access to her formal chart,
just willingness to track the trails I find.

I say the doctor told me, don’t drink milk,
it makes me ill. "Well, doctors! Silly sorts."
And we connect, there's conversation, till
the meds nurse comes to settle all her thoughts.

We talk another time before she leaves,
about her street. Although so much is lost –
its name, the neighbours’ names – as illness thieves,
she holds my hand and smiles. Our paths have crossed.

Felicity Teague


If you have any thoughts about this poem, Felicity Teague  would be pleased to hear them