Hocus Locus
We wait in rows of blue chairs,
not in cathedral light, but under white strip bulbs
their hum a subtle hymn.
In turn, we receive
Autumn’s liturgy of care.
The rustle of sleeves,
breath drawn tight.
Sharp scratch, says the locum
then a bead of blood appears.
Armed against the ad hoc flu.
We seek our add-on graces
pharmacy pilgrims, buying echinacea
Lemsip, Calpol, in case.
Purple sweets, Olbas Oil,
the scent of eucalyptus & menthol.
Rosehip balm for the posy of sores
around our lips.
Hot-water bottles. Pocket tissues.
We will all come down
with something, without our vial
of antiseptic spirit.
Jodi Green
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Jodi Green
would like to hear them
