Poem submitted by Simon McKeown
Sits on his bed, smoking his pipe.
I ask if he’s OK.
‘Fine’ the reply, in hurting voice.
Not sat with him on bed (I remember my training),
Still I care, I just want him to know –
I want to help at his time of angry bereavement.
So I go about my job,
Feeding them and him.
I check every five minutes.
He doesn’t want it, but we do it all the same.
A different face every five minutes,
And still he sits, thinking, and waiting,
In angry bereavement.
We expect the worst
But nothing, no nothing, exhibited at the moment.
Oh god, this job I do.
We deal with human losses every day.
How much can one man take?
Every door-slam we jump, and turn with worried look,
Fearing angry bereavement.